


nobody's darling

by kaermorons



Series: Witcher Bingo Card~ [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Author has stolen quotes from (mostly) dead poets, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Inspired by Poetry, Jaskier is Nobody's Darling, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, jaskier goes to kaer morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25683991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: A contract gone wrong ends with Jaskier outcast from society, and can only survive the winter at Kaer Morhen among the wolves.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Eskel, Jaskier | Dandelion & His Demons, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir
Series: Witcher Bingo Card~ [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828993
Comments: 47
Kudos: 390





	1. a bell that can't be unrung

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarchycox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/gifts).



It happened about four miles out of Cedaris, in a backwater, nowhere settlement lacking even a name. A handful of houses, each the same bleak and boring plaster as the next, sat around a square that hadn’t seen a market day in several months. Something didn’t bode well in the town, that much Jaskier knew, and he watched the curtains twitch back together in many windows as they walked through. The settlement had a mayor, at least, and the mayor had a contract for a Witcher. Unfortunately, the mayor and his son wanted to come along on the hunt. There was a familiar distrust of outsiders that Jaskier saw in their eyes, the same suspicious flint-gray in both father and son.

“This is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, you haven’t heard of his successes in battle?” Jaskier asked incredulously at the negotiations. Geralt only really allowed him to come along because Jaskier was a master barterer in addition to his barding. Not that Geralt would let the man know that. He’d probably keel over the moment he heard nary a compliment from the Witcher.

The news of Geralt’s master Witchering, however, had not reached this no-name settlement. Incidentally, this was the first monster they’d encountered in fifty years, and the first one they’d hired a Witcher for in living history. The scowl the mayor’s son gave the traveling duo was nothing new to them, however.

“We ain’t worked with a Witcher before, we’re gonna come with you to make sure you do the job right.”

Famous last words, and all.

The exact reason why Geralt let them go along escaped Jaskier. It took him a harrowing few months to win the hard-earned trust of the Witcher, and only when he’d started earning some supplemental income off of the stories from the hunts. Perhaps Geralt wanted money more than he wanted peace and quiet on hunts. Sure, that made sense, for the mystery of the mayor’s curious request.

Jaskier didn’t like it, but it laid the issue to rest in his mind.

The issue rested for all of ten minutes before Jaskier noticed the nervous tension in his Witcher’s shoulders, walking out of the mayor’s house. They were to pursue the hunt at sun-up, when the monster plaguing the settlement allegedly attacked most frequently. In the last three weeks, four different men had turned up with great deep slashes through their chests. The mayor and his son were less than willing to give any information regarding the injuries or nature of the men, as it would have “disrespected the dead”, so Geralt was left with almost no information for the hunt.

Jaskier was even more disappointed when they weren’t offered lodging at the inn, but the hayloft was free. “This is bullshit, Geralt,” Jaskier muttered under his breath as they set down their things in the stinky barn.

“What’s that you say about beggars being choosers?” Geralt teased, keeping the mood light in the face of it all. Jaskier could never hold in a grin when Geralt was in a good-humored mood, even in a dour place like this. They rested on the loft, quietly listening to the horses down below. Some kind of uneasy feeling held itself over the whole town, and only grew when the sun went down.

“I don’t like this one, Geralt,” Jaskier admitted in a whisper, unwilling to raise his voice too loud.

“I have to agree with you on that one, bard.” Geralt sighed. “I don’t think...you should play in the tavern tonight. I don’t ask you to keep your head down a lot, but this might be a contract we just need to get over with and leave as quickly as possible.”

Geralt wasn’t normally this verbose or outwardly-opinionated about jobs. It added to the strangeness of the situation. The lute stayed in its case, their bags still packed, like they were ready to leave at any minute instead of after payment. Jaskier frowned out the small square window facing east. Night was already falling, and quickly.

“Worst case scenario, what is it, do you think?” Jaskier whispers again, folding his hands over his stomach.

“Gryphon.” Geralt unsheathed his swords, setting up to clean, sharpen, and oil them in preparation for tomorrow’s hunt. Jaskier watched with fascination, as always. There was a sort of music to the way the whetstone would glide over the blade edge, a ringing rasp. “Too violent to be much else. Don’t feel magic, no dragons or other relic beasts around.”

“And a wyvern?”

“Wouldn’t have left anything to bury.” Another rasp, a perfect A Sharp. “Forktails leave more wreckage, would’ve left the villagers screaming about a dragon.”

“I remember that.” Jaskier chuckled at the memory of a brutal spring in Skellige.

“And before you say cockatrice, I would’ve fucking smelled it all over the place walking in.”

“I am still amazed by your sniffer, after all these years.” Jaskier shook his head, relaxing a little into the camaraderie.

“Sniffer.” Geralt rolled his eyes. “Wish it wasn’t so fucking sensitive some days. Don’t have enough coin for as many baths as I want. The only time I don’t fucking stink is at Kaer Morhen.” Jaskier leaned in for more information, the Witcher almost never spoke of his childhood and winter home.

“They wash you like the laundry up there?” Jaskier prodded.

Geralt huffed, realizing he’d walked right into this conversation. “There’s some hot springs beneath the keep. They stay warm yearlong, and the minerals from the aquifer have...properties.”

“Oh come now, Geralt. I wouldn’t write a song about a bathhouse.” Jaskier absolutely would, and Geralt’s look told him as such. Jaskier waved him off. “Tell me more.”

“They put us in there after the Trials for almost three days. No light from the outside, no outside noise, only the sensation of warm water holding you up, letting sensitive ears rest beneath the surface. It’s a pretty sacred place for the surviving Wolves.” Geralt frowns. “It’s also got healing properties like you wouldn’t believe.”

“There it is.” Jaskier smirked. “You wouldn’t subject yourself to a place with off-putting memories just for the nostalgia.” Geralt shot him a wry smile in the dark, and though he could not see it, Jaskier knew it was there anyway from the calm mood.

They spent the rest of the night in quiet conversation, falling asleep between one topic and the next. It made for pleasant, comfortable dreams, the last either would have for a great while.

* * *

The morning came with that same eerie calm that strangled all sound in the night. At dawn, Jaskier and Geralt readied themselves for the hunt. Geralt had trained Jaskier in several survival skills throughout their years walking together, as eventually Geralt had to contribute to the conversations the bard usually held with himself. The training had gotten him out of trouble several times, on hunts and flights from marriage beds. Geralt was reluctant to tell the bard that he was proud, in a way.

It seemed Geralt had one more lesson to teach him before they once again faced danger together. He held onto the bard’s upper arm just as they were to exit the barn. In the grey and murky pre-dawn light, all of Geralt’s features became sharper, more intense. His golden eyes flashed a little as he focused on the younger man, reminding the bard that he traveled with an otherworldly type of creature, a Witcher was no man. The tense silence Geralt held him in suspense with was still quite a human attribute. Jaskier was used to being kept in several minutes’ wait while Geralt found his verbal footing.

“Keep an eye on them today. Don’t let them come after me when things break violent. Look out for yourself as well.” A dagger, well-used but sharp enough to cut the very air between them, pressed into Jaskier’s hand, the hilt warm from where Geralt had been worrying at it that morning. Jaskier looked down at it, and stuck it in the hidden sheath beneath his jacket. He nodded up at his Witcher, whose expression was still just as tense as before.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be just like having three of me along.” Jaskier aimed for humor, but the easy mood from the night before was long gone. Jaskier left the barn, and almost didn’t hear Geralt’s final thought.

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

Pyotr and Pyotr Jr. were waiting in front of the house when Jaskier and Geralt walked up. On each of their hips were no less than three knives a piece, and Pyotr Jr. even had a length of heavy chain in his palms. Geralt regarded the crude, gang-style weapon with distaste. He huffed, and said, “Leave that here, unless you’re trying to scare the beast off.” The chain hit the ground with a dull clatter and a grunt of disapproval; obviously Pyotr Jr. had been looking forward to beating the beast silly with it.

Even the bard knew better than to make unnecessary noise on hunts.

“Let’s go. We leave now, we can get back before breakfast.” Pyotr said, rubbing his hands together in the chilly air. Geralt grunted and walked on into the forest, up a steep incline that had the mayor and his son huffing for air after an hour of hiking. Jaskier looked at Geralt with a knowing look, and took up the rear of the procession. It provided a not-very-nice view of Pyotr’s backside, a far fall from seeing Geralt’s leather-clad masterpiece of an ass trek up the hill.

It also meant Geralt was getting the brunt of Pyotr Jr.’s pissed rambling. Jaskier smirked fondly at first, the noise and Geralt’s dismissive silence reminding him of their first few hunts together. It was mostly ignored, but.

There was something to say about the worrying nature of his monologue.

“Gonna avenge the men who died, nobody deserves a death like that, what a cowardly creature to retreat only to hunt back again. It deserves a death by my hand at the very least,” he snarled. Jaskier was about to speak out against that wish when Geralt, surprisingly, did instead.

“I allowed you to tag along because you don’t trust Witchers. What you don’t trust is monsters, and I’m the only monster that is willing to put up with your self-righteous crusade, and my patience is thinning, junior.” Geralt kept his voice steady. He’d obviously been practicing this in his head. He continued. “I’ve seen stronger men than you die in seconds from trying to be the hero. Do you even know what it is we’re facing? No. You know less than nothing because your superstitions and prejudices blind you from actually helping anyone. So shut your fucking mouth and stay back,  _ human.” Bravo, dear Witcher. _

Truth be told, Jaskier was rather turned on by the whole speech. Geralt almost never strung together that many words of warning, more in favor of letting humans get into trouble all on their own. But they were in a shitty town with shitty pay facing an unknown monster and it was beginning to rain, so Geralt was a little more than pissed off. Jaskier would have to let the echoes of his sharp tone guide his hand for a wank later.

Pyotr Jr. huffed indignantly, his father slapping his side once they started to move again. “Don’t antagonize the man,” the mayor said.

It was the last thing said before they heard a rustling to the left, just beyond a heavy copse of trees. Geralt froze, holding his hand up to signal the group to stop. But Pyotr Jr. did not stop. He drew a knife in each hand, and stalked forward toward the noise.

“It’s a fucking family of rabbits, you imbecile.” Geralt snapped. The mayor’s son snarled angrily at the Witcher, who continued moving on. “Draw your weapon again and it may be the very last time you do.”

Jaskier happily smiled at the slouched shoulders of the men before him, so eager for a fight. “Fuckin’ Riv,” Pyotr Jr. muttered.

“You do know he’s not actually from Rivia, right?” Jaskier chirped happily.

The teasing mood vanished when a low growl sounded from above. “Damn it.” Geralt sighed and unsheathed his silver sword. In the darkness of the morning, they still couldn’t see the beast, and could only make out two glowing red eyes from above.

“Geralt what—”

“Stay here!” the Witcher called, aiming a hand up to shoot Aard at the tree. The beast screeched, and Jaskier’s blood went cold.

_ Gryphon. _

There was a reason Geralt never budged on leaving Jaskier behind for gryphon hunts. They were unpredictable, cunning, and their claws were kept very sharp, all the time. Jaskier reached for the mayor’s coat, pulling him back as Geralt tried to fight the beast an acceptable distance away. Jaskier wasn’t quick enough to grab his son, however, as the man took to charging head-on into the fray, shrieking with unhinged rage.  _ Fucking idiot. _

“Don’t be a hero, come back here!” Jaskier shouted, looking between the two men as the distance grew. With an annoyed groan, he told the mayor to stay put and went after the son. “Junior, come back!” Jaskier called as he sprinted, leaping over a small creek and wiping the rain from his eyes. They were far enough into the forest that there was no avoiding an uncomfortable walk back, damp and cold and, knowing how Geralt went about his Witchery, probably covered in gryphon viscera.

The son did not answer, trying to find an opening to start fighting the gryphon. Geralt had taken a potion in the time Jaskier had been panicking, his eyes black as the fading night, darkness flooding the veins in his face. Jaskier couldn’t get a good grip on the man, and he shook free every time. When Pyotr Jr. whirled on him, knife brandished like he’d stab whoever came between him and his bloodlust, Jaskier froze, the weight of Geralt’s dagger heavy over his heart. The mad son turned back to the beast, and was immediately thrown across the clearing by a strong wing. His knife skittered away from his hand as he hit a tree. Jaskier went for the knife, trying to keep Pyotr Jr.’s killing craze contained.

Jaskier was squashed as the man pounced on him, shouting to give back his knife. “I need to kill him! I need to kill him!” he shouted in Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier held true, fingers cutting into the blade as he tried to keep it away from the madman. He didn’t even know what was happening with the gryphon, so intent on keeping Pyotr Jr. away from it all.

Suddenly, Jaskier’s grip failed him, and the knife slipped free. Pyotr Jr.’s arm jerked back with it, and the blade sank right into his father’s back, and through his heart. The whole time they’d been scuffling, the mayor had been creeping forward, against Jaskier’s order, to get a better vantage point on the event. He’d obviously strayed too close to the human-sided struggle, and had ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Time slowed to a stop. Jaskier had seen men die before him, and at Geralt’s hand as well. This was an accident, through and through, but the feeling of hot blood spraying across his face from the wound made him want to vomit. The cold rain contrasted the feeling, and left Jaskier feeling limbless and dizzy. The mayor collapsed to the ground, a gaping hole in his back, with the knife in his son’s hand.

Jaskier was distantly aware of Pyotr Jr. stumbling off of him and away, not even trying to look mournful or worried over his father’s death. The bard lay frozen on the ground, another man’s blood drenching his clothes. He heard the dying shriek of the gryphon and a panicked shout of his name, but couldn’t make himself sit up and respond. A heavy weight that felt like guilt and regret and panic sat on his chest, keeping him down.

His vision was filled with Geralt’s worried face, even through the blackened eyes and the dirt. Fingers pressed to his neck, and he was ordered to breathe in that potion-addled rasp that usually made him shiver. Feeling, prickly and hot, rushed into his hands first, but they lifted to Geralt’s shoulders on their own will. Geralt sat him up, and oh, Junior must have twisted that knife when he pulled it out.

He retched to the side, their meager dinner coming up. Geralt didn’t ask what happened. A master tracker and hunter, he didn’t need the panicked explanations of his bard. The Witcher checked on the mayor, and the upset growl that tore from his lips told Jaskier there was no saving the man.

It took awhile, but Jaskier was back up on his feet eventually. He hadn’t said a word since running after the mayor’s son, what feels like hours and hours ago. Jaskier numbly registered Geralt burning the gryphon’s corpse, and taking the trophy for the town. He noted that they were walking downhill together.

“Where’d the son go?” Geralt asked.

“He left. Right after.” Jaskier swallowed back bile, the bitter taste staying in his mouth.

“He might have gone back to town. I saw his tracks headed that way.” Geralt had a hard set to his shoulders, the potion worn off an hour ago. “Jaskier…”

“What.”

“It...listen, I don’t trust my gut for a lot of things when it comes to humans, but this feels...bad.” Geralt’s worry didn’t fully set in until the town was in sight. A large group, most likely everyone in town, stood in the normally deserted square, in a circle around…

Pyotr Jr., who was waving wildly while he spoke. Geralt’s face contorted angrily, for he could clearly hear the invectives the man was cursing. He held the knife, the bloody knife, aloft, and the crowd shouted in horror. A shrill cry pointed Geralt and Jaskier out to the crowd, and the crowd turned into a mob.

“That’s him! That’s the bard that killed the mayor!”

Jaskier and Geralt looked at each other in confusion, but the next few moments were blurry. Geralt drew his steel sword and took a defensive stance in front of his bard. “The Witcher’s gonna kill us too!” another shouted.

Jaskier stayed behind Geralt, dizzy with the utter ferocity that was being spat their way. Someone threw a bottle. Another threw a rock. Jaskier realized now that Geralt didn’t mean things felt bad.

He meant things felt like Blaviken.

They tried shouting down the preposterous lies, defending their honor, but the town’s hatred drowned them out. Geralt led Jaskier to the stables, and snapped for him to ready Roach to go. Jaskier’s hands moved automatically, and didn’t even notice them shaking as he did as ordered. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if his hair was on fire right then.

He saw all the rest of the horses were gone, save their girl. The sight made his stomach drop, but he didn’t know why until they caught Pyotr Jr.’s eye as they left the town in silent shame. He was smirking.

The horses were all gone because others were riding ahead to spread the rumor, spread the tale of the Butcher Bard. Geralt had Jaskier ride with him, putting distance between them and the riot before any pitchforks came out. Jaskier felt like he was floating in a dream, listless and still so confused. The reality of the situation had yet to sink in, and though he’d eventually have to lift his face, hiding in Geralt’s cloak seemed like the safest place for him at the time. 

Geralt knew that rumor would travel faster than Roach, and that it’d be rough on them both. Never once did he think of leaving Jaskier to bear this weight alone. The burden of one man’s lie had almost broken Geralt. Who knew what it would do to the shoulders and heart of his bard?

They’d just have to see.


	2. scorn

They knew something was wrong when they got to Cedaris. They couldn’t get too far away, what with the storm rolling in, but it was far enough from the settlement that they felt comfortable dismounting and bedding down for the night in an inn or tavern. They had the hoods of their cloaks up, shielded from view as they rode in.

The tavern they chose was far enough from the royal houses that there was no chance of possibly seeing the dreadful Valdo Marx, which would have made the entire situation that much worse.

Destiny had no pity this day, however. Jaskier sighed to Geralt that he wanted to sleep for a week, and bathe for a week after that, and the last voice Jaskier wanted to hear cut in. “You know, Julian, I knew you were ready to do anything to get ahead, but murder is a new level to stoop to.”

Geralt frowned but ignored the exchange, at first. Jaskier pasted on a smile and turned to face Valdo.

“Marx. Thought an outskirts tavern was too low-class for your taste.” Jaskier was acutely aware of the blood still staining his hair and skin and only reveled a little in seeing the troubadour of Cedaris recoil at the sight. Unfortunately, his rival recovered quickly.

“Still covered in the evidence of your crimes, as always, Julian. What will your highborn family say when they hear you killed a man in front of his own son?” The panic boiled up Jaskier’s throat, keeping any witty retort just out of reach.

“That’s not what happened,” Jaskier said shakily. “Aren’t you trained in seeing through lies?”

“But this one just sounds so like you, surely traveling with the Butcher of Blaviken has rubbed off onto you?” Jaskier felt that bile from earlier rise up. Surely this whole day was just a dream, he was going to wake up in that stinky barn again and this will all have just been a fucking nightmare.

“I suggest you anger neither of us, then.” Geralt stepped in between the bards, but Jaskier saw the damage was already done. Angry glares from all around, clued in that  _ this, _ Jaskier, was the bard from the rumors that came in at lunch. The hostility charged the air they breathed, and Jaskier felt dizziness start to overtake him. Someone called for guards.

“Geralt we should leave.” Jaskier breathed, grasping the Witcher’s arm desperately.

Marx was saying something, in a nasty tone, but all of it seemed to disappear when Geralt looked at him, searching his eyes with concern and stoic concentration. The Witcher must have found some desperation in Jaskier’s eyes because he nodded slowly and led them out of the tavern. The boos and jeers followed in their wake.

The rain had picked up considerably so, and the temperature had dropped so sharply in just those few minutes indoors that Jaskier had to bite back a shout as they walked into the air. He shivered violently, wrapping his cloak back around his shoulders as Geralt trudged forward. Jaskier felt shame and embarrassment radiating out of every pore, in his sweat, and in the tears he’d tried his damnedest to not let fall. Geralt, he knew, could scent his emotions as easily as if Jaskier had just told him all he was feeling. The Witcher said nothing about how upset he was. He felt he should apologize to the Witcher, for getting them kicked out of a warm bed for the night.

But for now, they walked in tense silence, just the sound of the rain and the ocean nearby. “Fucking hate Cedaris anyway,” Geralt said. It sounded so familiar and so  _ Geralt _ that it made Jaskier bark out a laugh unexpectedly, but by the time it hit the air it was a sob. Through the tears in his eyes, Jaskier could see Geralt tense, but not turn back. Jaskier really would have to apologize, and fast.

Geralt didn’t deserve the same scorn twice.

* * *

They moved to Cintra, but their stopoff in Cedaris had put them leagues behind the rumor mill. Jaskier had tried playing in several towns on the way, but his reputation, and the lies, had preceded him everywhere. He hadn’t had a streak of sleeping on the ground this long in their entire time traveling together. It left Jaskier looking rather haggard, and itching for a nice bath somewhere he could close his eyes.

When they got to Cintra, they headed straight for the bathhouse. He’d managed to get halfway through shaving his face before someone had taken a knife to him, but Geralt had intervened. He’d been ushered out of the bathhouse and asked not to return “for the disturbance he’d caused.”

The rest of that night was terrible. Half-clean and twice as anxious as before, Jaskier had ducked into an alley to scream into his hands. The tension in his chest had abated just a little from that release, but his hands shook for hours after. Geralt had heard every hitched breath, every claw at his skin, every panicked gasp when they rounded a corner.

Jaskier didn’t even look up when he walked anymore, he could feel the weight of the glares and snarls even without seeing them. The lump in his throat grew, until even the brave face he’d taken to holding was gone, replaced with an expression that grayed at the edges.

Things get worse, little by little.

In Kerack, where they were sure the rumor mill couldn’t penetrate, the alderman took one look at Jaskier and said he didn’t have a contract for a Witcher if  _ he _ was there. “Don’t want any trouble, you see.” The man tried to appeal to Geralt, as if his behavior was perfectly understandable. Geralt was about to argue, but Jaskier’s hand shot out and gripped his elbow.

“It’s fine. I’ll, I’ll go make camp.” He put on a brave face that only went as far as his mouth. Geralt’s eyes held a pained expression, but he just nodded. They really needed the coin, and since Jaskier certainly wasn’t getting any gigs anytime soon, he needed this contract.

Jaskier stomped into the woods with his head held high. He methodically went through the process of setting up camp, unrolling a bedroll and starting a small fire despite the early hour. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Geralt found him, as always, and nodded at the setup. Jaskier preened a little at the praise, a watery smile flashing across his mouth, gone as soon as it came. “Managed to work the price up a little,” Geralt said over dinner.

Jaskier nodded absently, looking at his lute case. He didn’t want to risk drawing attention to himself. Someone on the road that morning had recognized his voice and told Geralt he’d “take that murderer off his hands” for free. Geralt had shouted the man back down the road, and Jaskier hid behind the Witcher the whole way into Kerack.

No, he wasn’t going to play tonight. “I don’t feel well. Gonna turn in for the night,” Jaskier mumbled and said no more.

Geralt watched as his bard twitched and flinched from nightmares, tossing and turning and whimpering every so often. He kept watch, knowing at least one person had followed them into the woods. He glared the silent stalkers away as they appeared, holding silent vigil over Jaskier’s vulnerable body. Very briefly, he debated going back to that no-name town and finishing off Pyotr Jr. as well, but the damage had already been done.

Jaskier cried in his sleep. Geralt wished he didn’t know why.

* * *

Hunts were rather tense after that. Leaving Jaskier alone for a matter of hours was a matter of hours that Jaskier wasn’t under Geralt’s direct watch, and therefore protection. The anxiety in his chest rose each time he set out, and he fought with a desperate efficiency that even monsters feared to face.

Their walks between towns were silent. Jaskier hadn’t opened his lute case in almost three weeks, and hadn’t performed in even longer than that. He kept his hood up on his cloak as they walked through the countryside, and waited outside for Geralt to secure lodging when they had the coin and desperation to seek a bed.

Jaskier made himself take the floor. Geralt wished he didn’t know why he felt he didn’t deserve the bed. He didn’t have the words for this. More than once, Geralt had to shut down Jaskier’s talk of going back to Lettenhove, throwing in the towel and giving up once and for all. Geralt growled that that wasn’t happening, and Jaskier didn’t have the energy to argue his point.

Eventually, through the rivers of nasty looks and bad treatment while on the Path, Geralt got a bit of help.

Eskel was walking practically the opposite direction as them, but the moment they recognized one another, the two Witchers were laughing and embracing. It was always a treat to see one of his brothers on the road, and he hoped Jaskier’s curiosity would be piqued from meeting another Witcher.

“Jaskier, this is my brother, Eskel.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Jaskier shook the Witcher’s hand with a pleasant nod, but said nothing else.

The tense silence between the three lasted until Eskel suggested they make camp early, to share stories and news. Geralt caught his eye. So he’d heard. Jaskier didn’t see the glance between them, and wouldn’t have gleaned the meaning anyway. He just nodded and went along with the pair, drifting behind morosely. It was like traveling with a ghost.

Eskel shared that he’d been paid in wine two hunts ago, and needed help getting through it if he wanted to get more than ten miles in each day. “Well, if it helps you out.” Geralt snarked, taking a bottle from his brother and passing another to Jaskier.

Jaskier held the bottle curiously, like he couldn’t recognize that it was a gift. With a sinking feeling, Geralt realized it had been so, so long since he’d been treated kindly that he was having a hard time reconciling the gesture. Geralt just popped the cork and started in on catching up with his brother.

“Will you play, bard?” Eskel asked, about a bottle and a half in. Night had fallen, now that things were hurtling towards winter. The fire was large and kept alive from Igni and one unfortunately-aimed bottle of wine, but the silence following Eskel’s question was icy and still.

“I shouldn’t,” Jaskier whispered, fingers flexing around the neck of the bottle in his hands, like he would have had he had his lute in hand. Geralt watched the exchange sharply, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Tell us a story, then.” Eskel tilted his head to the side. “You know the one I want to hear.”

Jaskier gave a hollow, bitter laugh. “Would it matter?” he bit out.

“Does to me.”

“And me.”

Jaskier looked helplessly between the two of them, knowing he wouldn’t be able get out of this one. “Bells can’t be unrung, Eskel.”

“They get duller the more it’s rung, sometimes. If you can get Geralt to stop frowning every winter over what happened twenty years ago, you can dig yourself out of this.”

Silence fell again, but the next time it broke, Jaskier spoke.

He told the tale like he wasn’t even in it, looking into the flames. His usually melodic and bright voice scraped over his tongue like each word pained him. The Witchers listened quietly, intently.

He spoke of the aftermath, the scowls and words hurled at his person, recounting each invective with ease and perfect memory. Even the silly things said by children, who didn’t even know what he’d done. Geralt’s rage simmered just a little hotter in his blood. He was sure he’d be able to make it to that town and back in less than a week, singlemindedly focused as he was for revenge now. Only Geralt knew he was leaving a few things out, knew the way he bit his lip and worried at it, debating saying more.

“Why do you think he did it?” Eskel asked.

“Because he would’ve been hanged for killing his father had he told the truth,” Jaskier said tiredly.

“No, not that. Men are cowards on their best days and any of them would have used you to blame.” Eskel reclined a little on the log he was leaning against. “Why do you think he killed his father in the first place?”

“Greed, singleminded anger, some leftover hatred from childhood. Could’ve been anything.” Jaskier shrugged a little, shivering from the cold. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t control what other people do, or think, or say. Most Witchers don’t even understand that until we’re a few years seasoned on the Path.” Geralt nodded in assent.

“Sometimes you have to just let things go, if they won’t let go of you.”

“I can’t, though. I can’t, I...everywhere I go, it’s still being gripped tightly, held over me like a felling blow.” The anxiety in his tone was clear to even Jaskier’s ears. He drank again.

“Sing a song about it.” Eskel said, looking at the man curiously, but without pity.

Jaskier sighed and leaned back, but didn’t reach for his lute. After a moment, he closed his eyes and let the words pour out.

_ Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy _

_ The saddest one I can imagine _

_ For no hero in story, in myth or in history _

_ Are more interesting to examine _

_ Look at his heart, look at his poor little heart _

_ So blackened by darkness and pain _

_ Look at his soul, look at his sad little soul _

_ Shriveled and caught out in the— _

“I’m sorry, I’m. I’m very uncomfortable singing right now. Been off it for awhile. You know.” Jaskier said, breaking off. He was jittery, and his nerves bled through his scent heavily. Eskel sighed a little. Geralt looked pained for a bit but knew things would be bad. It still hurt to hear the raw note in Jaskier’s song, truth scraping too close to his heart.

“You should sleep, Jaskier.” Geralt said gently, holding his hand out for the bottle. Jaskier didn’t put up a fight, the spark and light in him gone out.

Silence fell over the little camp, and the Witchers did not speak until they were both certain the bard had fallen asleep.

“What do I do, Eskel?” Geralt whispered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t...I can hardly leave him for hunts.” Eskel knew how deep Geralt’s attachment to the bard ran, dumping him off somewhere was not an option. It’d break his heart.

“Being there for him is all you can do, right now. He’s fighting not only with them but with himself. How did you shake the Butcher moniker?”

“He took it by his teeth and ripped it to shreds.”

“Well, I think you’d make things worse by singing,” Eskel smirked.

“Dick.”

“Okay, okay. I...could have an idea.”

* * *

Jaskier hardly spoke in the morning, but he awoke with a growing worry over the fast-approaching winter. Geralt hadn’t said anything regarding dropping him off at the university, like he had in previous years, and meeting the other winter resident of Kaer Morhen reminded him of that fact. The morning after meeting Eskel, Jaskier was slightly disappointed that the other Witcher had left without saying goodbye. Geralt noticed this.

“You’ll see him again.”

“That’s unlikely. Ten years on the road, the only Witcher I’ve met is you.” Jaskier said. His higher spirits encouraged Geralt, cementing his decision made the night prior.

Things went on as normally as they could have for weeks, with the same hatred and nastiness found in every town. Geralt tried to shield his bard from the worst of it, but Jaskier had resigned himself to his fate rather dejectedly. Things grew colder around them, and in his bard’s heart.

It wasn’t until Geralt had dropped quite a bit of money on a thick coat for Jaskier that the bard put the pieces together. “Geralt, aren’t you going to Kaer Morhen for the winter? You need—”

“We are going to Kaer Morhen for the winter.” The Witcher’s tone brokered no argument, and Jaskier simply did not have the energy to fight it. He was going to Kaer Morhen.

And really, how many times had he dreamed this day? The mysteries of Witchers laid bare to him like the very snow on the trail before him? Why did it feel like he was hiding? He pondered the bear, hibernating for the winter because the world was too harsh.

He was quiet most of the journey, as he always was. Geralt had made an effort to reel in the petty teasing between him and his companion, though in reality, Jaskier just didn’t want to annoy his dear Witcher.

The castle looked almost more ruin than structure, and though he doesn’t say as much, Geralt swiftly sought to assure the bard that it was very sturdy and comfortable on the inside. “Much of the keep is built into the mountain, kept insulated and warm.”

“I can survive a rough winter, Geralt.” Jaskier teased weakly. He hoped he was as brave as he made himself out to be. As it was, he was feeling more like a raw nerve than ever. What if he fucked up his time here, as he had on the gryphon hunt?

“Eskel should already be here with the others. Told you you’d see him again.” Geralt nudged him a bit, making him huff a laugh.

“So you did.”


	3. sanctuary

They arrived at the keep just after night had fallen. At this point in the journey, Jaskier didn’t care what the place looked like, he just wanted some food and a fire to warm his bones. He wasn’t expecting golden sands, crystal brooks, silks and silver. This was winter, and a winter fit for Witchers. He followed Geralt through the gates, looking up at the deep scars in the architecture, scrapes of swords a hundred years gone. The gate closed behind them, making Jaskier jump nearly out of his skin.

“You made it. Thought you were dead,” a voice called from above, before a hulking figure jumped down next to them.

“Lambert, this is Jaskier. He’ll—”

“Be staying with us, Eskel told us.” Lambert stood a few inches shorter than Geralt, and looked younger if a bit rougher around the edges. Jaskier knew the man probably greatly outnumbered Jaskier in winters, though they all looked relatively of an age. A few too many scars stood out on his face, but an amused smirk drew Jaskier’s eye away from evidence of his occupation. The same golden eyes stood out against the early evening din. “Lambert.” A weathered hand stuck out toward Jaskier, who fumbled to grab it. Even through the thick gloves, he could feel the warmth radiating from the Witcher.

“Jaskier.”

“Let's get in before you freeze your balls off.” That was a message they could understand greatly. “I’ll take care-a old Roachie, here. Get your human inside.” Geralt shook his head but did as told. Jaskier was astonished by the easygoing nature Geralt adopted, seconds after entering the gates of Kaer Morhen. His curious mind, dormant this last rough year, wondered what else he would discover within the stone walls.

Jaskier was swept through a pair of large oak doors, half-scorched from some long-ago fire. His wandering eyes tried to take in as much as possible like he’d be tumbled back down the mountain at the first possible opportunity. Geralt steered him toward a large, open room, most of it hardly visible save for a couple of yards extending out from the large hearth in the center. Jaskier recognized Eskel’s dark head of hair poking out the top of an armchair. “You made it,” another voice rumbled.

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Vesemir.” Geralt was smirking as he approached. Another Witcher - the master of the keep, as Geralt had told him - rose from the armchair next to Eskel’s. His eyes held centuries of wisdom and weathered wrinkles, and his silver hair spoke of age and experience beyond even that of Geralt. “This is Jaskier. He’s my guest this winter.”

“Nice to meet you, Jaskier,” the old Witcher said. Jaskier nodded in greeting, already feeling the exhaustion melt from his bones into his blood. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen.”

“I...thank you for taking me in this winter, I greatly appreciate it.” Jaskier knew he’d have to earn his place here at the keep, his memories full of Geralt complaining about the constant repairs done over his winter stays.

“It’ll be nice to have some song in these halls again.” Vesemir peered curiously at the lute on Jaskier’s back. An icy dread dropped into Jaskier’s gut. If the Witchers noticed his discomfort, they kindly said nothing. “Not tonight, though. You’re about to keel over, pup.” Jaskier allowed himself to be positioned near the hearth, and a bowl of stew was pushed into his hands.

A strange, dizzy calm settled over the hall once Lambert had joined them again, bitching about how Geralt and Jaskier would have to go retrieve their own belongings from the stables. Geralt waved him off, content to let his brother’s ribbing glide off him. It was strange to see the exchange. Jaskier hadn’t been in a room of people that didn’t actively hate him down to the bones in so long, he hardly remembered what it felt like to be completely accepted, or even simply ignored in a room.

The Wolves in their natural habitat were much different than how Jaskier had observed Geralt on the road. Down to the way he sat, Geralt was completely different. He carried none of the same tension in his shoulders, and the daggers he normally shot from his eyes were sheathed and locked away, replaced by a warm affection Jaskier almost never saw. Seeing Geralt this calm and happy was a luxury Jaskier never thought he’d see so openly.

As they ate and drank, the mood of the room relaxed even further, talk ranging from a seemingly traditional topic of their favorite hunts of the year, and bragging over who nearly died more than others. Jaskier never got to hear these kinds of stories from Geralt. The way he told the tale of his hunts, he described himself as completely in control, always a few steps ahead of the beast he was fighting. Now, hunts that had been immortalized in song, lauding the Witcher’s prowess, grace, and unflappable concentration were revealed to be near-misses and lasting aches, some of which were done through hangovers or migraines that could have ended much worse than they did.

Jaskier realized that this was probably the one true place these Witchers could admit their weaknesses and just be themselves; the world had cast them out too many times for their inner natures that the could not bear their souls, laugh as easily, without the strength of these stone walls, the distance of the mountain pass, and the quieting chill of the falling snow. They had to make their own palace within Kaer Morhen, for the world was their jail. Even when Eskel had camped down with them that night several weeks ago, Geralt had kept his composure and alertness. 

He had never felt isolated from society in his life. He’d understood from a young age that he had a place in this world, that he could not be a self-sufficient island, entirely made up of just himself. He relied on and embraced others, in help and in love. For them to turn him away so blatantly had rocked him to his core and shook the confidence from him like a dog shaking water from its fur.

As he realized the true depth of his dark thoughts, he came back to hear the Witchers grousing over the details of a story Jaskier knew well. It was the tale of Monsegnieu the Brave, a fabled knight from Kaedwen who killed a thousand beasts and came back to find one in his bed, for his wife had been one all along. Rather than face the shame of what he’d done, killing his wife’s brethren, he took his own life, hiding his death in the fields where he’d slaughtered so many others.

Yet the Witchers were arguing a point Jaskier didn’t consider before.

“They were werewolves, obviously! It’s the oldest magical transformation in the book!” Lambert cried.

“What book? It’s a fucking fable, for crying out loud. It’s not meant to be told the same way with the same meaning.”

“I’ve read it in a book,” Eskel chimed in.

“Shut up, you can’t read.” Lambert kicked his brother, but Eskel was faster, grabbing his ankle and lifting Lambert’s leg, tilting his chair back and tossing it to the ground. The other Witchers laughed at the spectacle as Lambert bristled.

“Actually, the oldest reputable source says the beasts are wargs, and that the beast in his bed ate the good knight’s wife and he was just too stupid to look twice.”

The Witchers fixed him with four sets of glowing golden eyes, a mix of appreciation (Geralt), amusement (Vesemir), curiosity (Eskel), and playful distaste (Lambert, obviously). He may not have been able to scent their emotions and feelings as they could, but Jaskier couldn’t feel a single ounce of malice from any of them. They were as warm as the hearth they gathered around. How unsettling.

“And how do you know that, pup?” Vesemir asked, amused.

“I studied fable origins in the last semester of earning my degree...in addition to my storytelling curriculum I teach occasionally.” Occasionally meaning,  _ pretty much every winter with the exception of this one. _

Vesemir gave a chuckle, and Lambert groaned in annoyance.

“You’ve brought a schoolmarm to Kaer Morhen, way to go Geralt. Gonna have to mind my p’s and q’s now.”

“You haven’t minded your manners once in your whole miserable life, Lambert.” Eskel kicked out his foot toward his brother, who exacted swift and equal revenge, pulling the same trick used on him earlier. Eskel laughed, loud and long, as he collapsed back on the stone. Vesemir and Geralt both shook their heads at their antics. It reminded Jaskier of a friend’s family, all warm smiles, and freely-given affection. Growing up in nobility iced out a lot of parts of himself that his tenacious heart had to regrow after several long winters of emotional distance.

He had never seen Geralt act like this before, though. The careful ease in his features, even the fall of his hair looked different. He no longer held the sharp expression of his usual demeanor, and his edges were soft and rounded. It was nice. He could only hope the other Witchers did not pity him for his heart’s affections toward their brother.

Vesemir launched into a story of his own season away from the keep, and Geralt leaned over to Jaskier just to whisper, “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it on the Path, he’ll love that more than the rest of us combined.” A shivery thrill rushed over every inch of Jaskier’s skin, like Geralt had written poetry across his body.

And really, wasn’t that the strangest part of this whole thing? These Witchers, created through violence and magic and tempered by time, speaking in poetic turns of phrase and debating man’s morals. Jaskier wished he didn’t understand why, but the last harsh few months of his life whispered the answer. That soft center hidden beneath decades of hated, weathered exterior, revealed itself as soon as something tougher surrounded it. Kaer Morhen was a keep brought to her knees by that same hatred, but she endured with the help of Witchers who dwelled there even now. And these Witchers endured in the company of one another. Jaskier hadn’t felt that kind of safety in a great long while.

“Do you have a library here?” Jaskier asked. Vesemir nodded and promised he’d show him the next day after morning chores were done.

“Geralt warned you there are no idle hands at Kaer Morhen?” Vesemir grumbled, shooting a look over to his son.

“Yes, I told him. And he’s stronger than he looks.” Geralt rolled his eyes.

“I feel I should take offense to that, but if your compliments are to be backhanded, I shall accept them either way, my friend,” Jaskier smirked into his cup, settling in a bit more at the appreciative chuckle Geralt’s brothers gave.

“You’re sassy when you’re tired. Let’s get you set up in a room.” Geralt grumbled and dragged his reluctant bard back out into the cold stables, hoisting their bags over shoulders for the final leg of their journey: from the stables to the bed.

“That went better than expected if I can be honest,” Jaskier said as they climbed the steps to the personal quarters.

“What were you expecting? Chains, whips, snarling beasts? Keep some room in your mind for the unimaginable, there’s a lot you’ll find will fill the void. Also, lies smell terrible to a Witcher, if you can be nothing else, be honest.”

Jaskier tried not to let the sudden grace of Geralt’s words poleaxe him, but he had to shake his head to keep his body moving.

Geralt put Jaskier up in the room next to his, a little smaller and sparser, but that was to be expected. The Wolves didn’t often take guests. As Jaskier lay in his bed, the fire roaring several yards away, he thought over the cruel summer, how it had lacked the warmth this winter brought him now. He loathed to admit he’d eventually have to tell the tale to his hosts, but hopefully, he’d be able to get a bottle of wine in him beforehand. His dreams did not plague him that night, exhausted as he was, and he was grateful for it.

The next morning was bleak and colorless, the sun slow to rise in the valley. Jaskier was roused by Eskel, who informed him breakfast was ready. The other Witchers had been up for a few hours already, getting some training in before chores.

Over breakfast, Vesemir explained the tasks that took priority before the snow fell too hard. Lambert groused about it, but the lack of heat to his words revealed the playful nature of his complaints. “We fixed the eastern wall last year, now our training laps are that much longer and need even more attention. Fuckin rocks, so needy.” Geralt smirked.

“Wasn’t it you who said life was essentially an endless series of problems, and the solution to one problem is—”

“Merely the creation of another. Don’t quote  _ me _ to me, I know what I said.” Lambert shook his head and finished his breakfast. “Where’s the bard working?”

Vesemir kept his face neutral as he said, “Jaskier will be working with me in the library. If you wouldn’t mind putting your formal educational background to use, I’d like to at the very least organize it by winter’s end.” Lambert started to squawk at Jaskier’s cushier chore, but Eskel kicked him.

“Have you seen the library recently? Jaskier’s gonna wish he was out in the courtyard, freezing his balls off.” Eskel threw a sly wink Jaskier’s direction, and Jaskier hid his smile in his tea.

The library really was a mess. Stacks and stacks of books and broken furniture, most likely decades since they were touched, accented each cobwebbed corner of the large room. It was a miracle none of the windows let any of the persistent rain in, keeping mold from the precious texts. Vesemir explained the work he’d done on trying to organize, hence the stacks standing tall and proud before their shelves.

“Are there any carpentry tools I could use?” Jaskier found himself asking, already looking closer at some of the shelving units. They were falling apart in places, and looked worse for wear in others. Vesemir looked surprised, so his mouth got ahead of him. “These shelves don’t look like they could take another five winters, is all…” He turned to hide his rising blush. He’d always let his mouth run places it shouldn’t, much to his tutors’ disappointment.

“There’s no reason to stay your tongue here, bard. You’ve met Lambert. Besides, it’s nice to hear a new voice here, I’m sure the old stones like it too.” Vesemir ran his hand along one such stone wall, looking up to the rafters. “Fix her up any way you’d like. Don’t be a stranger in a sanctuary, Jaskier. Freedom lies in being bold.” Vesemir nodded and left Jaskier to work on his own for a while, faced with an impressive challenge. He’d return to grab him for lunch.

“At least it’d take my mind off things,” Jaskier muttered, his voice carrying and bouncing back to him several times. The stone walls liked his voice, indeed.

A couple hours passed before lunch, everyone looking a little frazzled by the sudden plunge back into work. Jaskier didn’t want to touch a single splintered shelf for the rest of the day. Vesemir decided they deserved to roast the deer he’d hunted two days ago, a celebration that everyone made it home in one piece. The rest of Jaskier’s waking hours were spent doing kitchen work, laughing and drinking with the others, and stealing knowing glances with Geralt every so often. Could they hear how his heart pounded at every shred of attention the White Wolf gave him? Did they know the truth in his heart he dared not speak? If they did, they said nothing of it.

Geralt pulled him aside from the group. “Wanna show you something.” That was all Jaskier needed to follow the White Wolf, through a simple set of hallways. It was strange; the deeper they walked into the keep, it grew warmer and warmer underfoot. The moment Jaskier heard the soft sound of water rushing against stone, he gasped.

“The hot springs?” Geralt’s answering grin served as an affirmative.

“Thought you’d appreciate some calm, after the climb and...well.” Geralt waved his hand in a catch-all gesture. “Feel up for a bath right now? We tend to drink at dinner, you might not—”

“If you keep talking and don’t get me in that hot spring this minute, I’ll walk back down the mountain myself,” Jaskier said, with playful seriousness. Geralt rolled his eyes but kept an eye on him. In his most hopeful of hearts, Jaskier thought that perhaps Geralt thought he was going to disappear from the mountaintop as well.

The springs were a collection of pools, carved from the earth, and widened to accommodate Witchers for hundreds of years. Old chairs and buckets sat around the dim room, probably boasting of impressive rot due to the humidity of the cavern. Steam rose lazily from the waters’ surface, from what Jaskier could see.

“You won’t be able to see once I close the door, is that alright?” Geralt asked. “I’ll lead you in, though.” Jaskier nodded once and the door closed.

They were plunged into dark, wet heat, no sound but that of their breathing and the rush of water all around them. The sound of a pair of boots hitting the floor reminded Jaskier to disrobe. “I didn’t bring—”

“I brought it down earlier. Hope you don’t mind,” Geralt said from the dark.

“So presumptuous of you, dear Witcher.” Jaskier nearly tipped over taking his breeches off, were it not for the large hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “Thank you, my faithful guardian.”

“Now who’s being presumptive?”

Jaskier kept his breathing steady as they moved to the pools, eyes wide and unseeing. Geralt’s hand on the small of his back proved mighty distracting, but they were soon stepping into incredibly warm water. Jaskier’s reactive groan bounced off of the stone walls for several seconds. The hand on his waist tightened before letting go.

They settled not too far from each other, but close enough to brush their legs together. For once, Jaskier had nothing to say, content to bask in this little slice of heaven hidden in the heart of the mountain. Geralt did not speak either, though that was more to be expected. A bar of soap, unscented and utilitarian, was pressed into his hand, reminding him of their purpose in the springs.

“Won’t the soap damage the stone or the water?” Jaskier asked. Geralt gave a grunt, a  _ no _ in that stupid word-adjacent language of his. “How?” Jaskier moved around slowly, searching the stone for a drain or something.

“Witcher secrets. Witcher benefits.”

“Ass.”

Jaskier was still flushed by the time they went down for dinner. It was a fine affair of roasted venison and wine, a fine red from Toussaint that Vesemir didn’t want to talk about how he came by it. Geralt leaned over, lips almost at Jaskier’s ear, to whisper it was a Law of Surprise gone wrong. Jaskier nearly snorted wine out his nose laughing.

Lambert’s ears flushed scarlet when Vesemir pulled an embarrassing story from his youth out to rest on the table between the five of them. Jaskier almost choked on his laughter, his throat protesting the action. He hadn’t laughed this long or this loud in months.

“In my defense, they never told me not to.”

“That’s Lambert. Resist much, obey little.” Eskel drank from his wine after his proclamation, which Jaskier toasted to as well. Lambert kicked Eskel under the table.

Too many drinks later is when it happened. “So what really happened this summer, Jaskier?” Vesemir asked, holding his wine close to his lips, giving the words a muffled quality. Jaskier sighed. He thought it’d be longer before he’d have to speak about it, not his second night there.

“Well. I should have told Geralt I had a bad feeling when we went into town in the first place…”

The rest of the room was silent as a grave as Jaskier spoke, slurring through the details in places, and glossing over the hurt in others. He forgot himself for a moment, words slipping off his tongue as he detailed the nasty whispered words that haunted his nights, the taverns they’d been turned out of, the angry glares shot at him when walking by. He gave a laugh, high-strung and shocking even to himself.

“And that’s just what Geralt knows.” He waved his hand wide, nearly catching the White Wolf himself in the face.

The silence held for a beat before Eskel spoke.

“And what doesn’t Geralt know?” The Witchers seemed to hold their breath for the answer. Jaskier laughed again, this time bitter and sad.

“There were a few places, places that let us stay in their inn, or the barn. Of course, Geralt had to go out on his hunts, Witchering. But I was alone. I couldn’t play, lest they threw knives instead of coin. I couldn’t leave to eat, lest they poison me in a meal. And really, a man is most vulnerable in the bath, so I just. Stayed in. Didn’t eat. Didn’t speak. Didn’t sleep.” Jaskier let out another sharp laugh. “One night, someone tried breaking into the room. I just stayed up and watched the handle turn back and forth and back and forth, rattling for hours. I think they were just trying to scare me, or lure me out.

“But no one ever tried anything while Geralt was around, surprisingly. Usually, it was my fine company preventing any regular petty nastiness from humans. Suppose things are different now. For now.”

“How many times did this happen, Jaskier?” Geralt asked softly, not quite whispered in his ear.

“I lost count by the time you said we were coming to Kaer Morhen.” Jaskier drank deeply, trying to wash away the bitter memories. “Oh, don’t look like that, Geralt. I’m sure you’ve had worse dished to you.”

“Not by my own kind.” Geralt shook his head. “You should have told me they had done that, I would have—”

“What? Tried to convince them otherwise? It didn’t work the first time, or the second time, or the dozens of times after that followed. Words mean nothing in the ears of the unjustly cruel.” Jaskier stood up shakily, bade everyone an abrupt good night, and walked out.

Geralt’s fists were clenched so hard he feared his dry knuckles would crack and bleed. Even in the aftermath of Blaviken, he hadn’t felt this much rage against the unfairness of men. Jaskier had naught a mean thing to say for anyone, save occasionally one Cidarian troubadour.

“This is a lot worse than I’d expected,” Vesemir said softly. Lambert glared at the table, focusing his anger outward. Eskel sighed and pulled a hand over his scarred face.

“I’m glad I suggested he come here. Who knows what would’ve happened had he gone off to Oxenfurt for—”

“Don’t,” Geralt growled, flexing his hands, feeling the knuckles pop with how tight he’d been clenching them. “Just. Don’t remind me.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, as Eskel had done, and sat back in his chair. “Do I even take him out on the Path with me anymore?” The others answered all at once.

“Yes.”

“Of course you do.”

“He’s not walking with me, that’s for sure.”

“Thanks, you’re all so helpful,” Geralt snapped sarcastically. “Maybe some time away from it all will do some good. It certainly makes dealing with humans easier knowing I won’t be around them come winter.” They sat in quiet contemplation for a while.

“How long did it take before you stopped trying to dissuade humans of the Butcher title?” Eskel asked. Geralt was about to snap at him, before Eskel put a hand up, saying, “I’m curious, not judgemental.”

“At least a decade. Haven’t really had anyone say anything since Jaskier started singing my good graces,” Geralt said with a sigh. “Didn’t help that I was out on the road letting them say it to my face, though.” He drank his wine. “I can’t take him on the Path if he’s going to be facing a certainty of death when I’m facing a certainty of my own.”

“Train him,” Lambert blurted out, surprising the other Witchers. “Have him learn to defend himself, get something to do with his hands, don’t let him just sit around. Do something. The answers will follow, even if he doesn’t know it himself.” Vesemir looked proud of the youngest Witcher. For all he was crass and rude, his moments of clarity rang with truth.

“You train him. Eskel, teach him some alchemy. I’ll keep watching his progress in the library, and—” Geralt frowned when Vesemir didn’t finish his allocations.

“What should I do, Vesemir?” Geralt asked softly.

“I think...just being there for him will be good for both of you.” The words were cryptic, but it was more of a plan than anything Geralt could come up with. “You’ll still have chores to do, I remind you.” Vesemir knocked back the rest of his wine and stood. “I’ll see you in the morning. Lambert, hold off on doing anything for a few days, let him find the rhythm of a winter day at Kaer Morhen.”


	4. letting go

Jaskier took to the rhythm of hard work well. He figured the four Witchers had spoken about him, by the quiet looks they snuck at him at breakfast the next day, but he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was going on. He had all winter to decipher the other three Witchers’ quirks and mannerisms.

Just like he had all winter to fix a mostly-shipwrecked library. Excellent.

It was in that library that he was nearly scared half to death by the sudden appearance of Geralt, while he’d been looking far too closely at the third in a dreadfully interesting series of books about lycanthropy. “Have you ever tried meditation?”

“Melitele’s dripping fucking cunt, Geralt!” Jaskier shrieked. “Announce yourself before I expire on top of this mountain!” His heart pounded, and he could feel his bloody pulse in his eyeballs. He held the book close to his chest and took a shuddering breath. Geralt looked far too pleased with himself, getting this reaction out of Jaskier. Of course, this was Geralt’s home turf, he’d be very familiar with squeaky steps and how to carry himself silently across the stone floors. “What?!”

“Meditation, Jaskier. Have you ever tried it? It’s an excellent way to get your breathing and body under control.” Geralt smirked at the last part, rather proud of himself overall.

“Bastard.” Jaskier huffed a laugh and pushed a hand through his hair. “No, I have not. Never been one for prayer, either. Why do you ask?” He set the book down and pulled others from the shelf, letting Geralt follow him while he sorted and organized, methodically emptying the bookcases.

“It’s one of the first things we’re taught here. We spend a lot of time alone on the Path, and have to get used to not being around anyone else but ourselves. It also teaches control, and—at least for Witchers—helps us heal faster.”

“Yes, well, I’m not exactly going out on the Path alone, am I?” Jaskier muttered before a dark shot of fear flooded his veins. “Are you planning on—”

“No!” Geralt panicked, taking a few steps forward. “No, no. I just. I thought it might help you. Get used to being yourself again.” This last part was mumbled, almost unintelligible, had Jaskier not spent a decade at the man’s side. Jaskier took a relieved breath, setting down the other books and resting a hand on Geralt’s arm.

“I’m willing to try anything once, as you know.”

“I thought you were talking about—” Jaskier felt his ears flush red.

“Yes, I know what I was talking about, but...if you want to teach me, I’ll gladly play student to you, Geralt of Rivia.” The proclamation hung heavy between them, suspended in the infinite moment of their silence.

“Thank you. We can try after lunch and...we could spend some time in the springs after? I don’t want to keep you from your work.” Geralt knew exactly how much Jaskier had been ‘working’ when he’d come in. “Might have to take you back next year just to get the rest of it done.” The smile Geralt gave nearly melted his knees to pudding.

“Rude.” Jaskier laughed but nodded. “After lunch, then.” Geralt left, and Jaskier leaned heavily on a wall. Gods, but it was hard to keep his infatuation to himself when he couldn’t avoid the man at all. He’d have to keep it in check.

After lunch, a warm meal of venison stew, Geralt and Jaskier went up to the Witcher’s room. Jaskier looked around, taking in the fur rugs on the ground before the hearth, the wide, four-poster bed, swords on the walls amidst knick-knacks from all over the Continent. It looked like the bed-chamber out of any lewd novel giggled over among teenage girls. Jaskier kept his blush at bay by focusing on his nerves. He didn’t want to disappoint his best friend by not being able to—what, sit still for a while?

“We can sit right here.” Geralt indicated to the rugs, and they sat together, with Geralt adjusting his position here and there. “I won’t have us go longer than what we were first taught, but the goal isn’t to find inner peace or any of the bullshit you think mystic monks do.”

“What is the goal, then?” Jaskier matched his quiet tone.

“When you sit quietly enough, your mind will try to show you all the things you should be worrying over, it’s just the nature of a busy life such as ours. The goal is to let those things go. Just be comfortable existing. Let yourself hold those thoughts gently for a moment, and when the time comes to let it go, let it go.”

“Even good thoughts?”

“Even good thoughts. Close your eyes, and try to match my breathing pattern. You may count if you like, but try not to fall asleep.”

They began.

The first few moments, Jaskier felt his restless body grow antsy, thinking of how he needed to be moving around, needed to adjust  _ just a little, _ but then he remembered what Geralt had said. He acknowledged what his body told him, and he let the thought go, imagining a slow-moving river he could send them down.

It was a pleasant afternoon, by the end. A couple of times, Jaskier came close to wanting to open his eyes, wanting to check that this wasn’t a joke Geralt was playing on him, but he trusted Geralt with his life, with his heart, with more than Jaskier could fathom on a good day. He let those urges go, emptying his mind of any burden it carried to him, donating it to the ever-accepting river. There were other times to focus and concentrate on things, but this was not one of them.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice came to him like he was breaking through the surface of the water, eyes flying open in surprise. “What?” Jaskier whispered.

“I think that’s good for today. How do you feel?”

“I…” Jaskier looked down at his hands, not even remembering the irritation in his knees, in his back from sitting in one position for so long. “I’m not sure.”

Geralt held his gaze for a moment, before humming and nodding once. “Did you find anything difficult?”

“No. I...I understand what you mean, though. About letting things go.” Geralt nodded again.

“Why don’t we do this again tomorrow?” The promise of more time alone with the White Wolf quickened the once-docile beat of Jaskier’s heart, and he nodded with a smile.

“Let’s. I think you promised me some time in the hot springs first, though?”

“That I did.”

* * *

Jaskier found himself waking early with the others in the castle, but took to puttering about aimlessly while they trained outside, looking forward to the easy pattern of breakfast, library, lunch, meditation, library again before a trip to the hot springs and the remaining meal for the day. Geralt joined him in the springs each day, a quiet but welcome bit of company between the louder moments in the keep. Vesemir’s carpentry tools left him a little wanting and left more splinters than the lumber he worked with, but they would do for the winter. He already had several shelves repaired and reinforced by the time Eskel came to him, a few days into meditating with Geralt.

“Looks good already,” the Witcher complimented, leaning on a wall. Jaskier was used to the Witchers not feeling the need to announce themselves around Kaer Morhen now, and kept himself on guard for any drop-ins to the library. He turned to look at him.

“Why, thank you. How fares the eastern wall?” Jaskier continued working, loading books back on to test the integrity of the bookshelves.

“It’ll hold another decade unless we get a mage up here to re-form the wards.”

“Wards?”

“You think a keep full of Witchers and mages was only protected by stone and steel?” Eskel quirked an eyebrow at Jaskier, who gave a sheepish laugh. “Certainly a magic hot spring didn’t escape you, bard.”  _ Of course the springs were magical. It was hard to feel, though, with the joy and contentment being by Geralt’s side brought. _

“I’m a little more than out of my element, if you’ll forgive me. I’m certainly more accustomed to vast unread libraries and loveless halls than a castle of magic and secrets and history.”

“Then let me show you around. Unless you prefer the vast unread library. I’ll get you back before your meditation.” So there were many secrets in Kaer Morhen, at least Jaskier was right about that. It just so happened that the Witchers knew all about them already.

Jaskier had to admit, however, he was getting a bit antsy, even with the meditation practice he’d been having with Geralt. “Sure. Got all winter, don’t I?” Eskel led him out of the library, and walked quietly through the halls toward the heart of Kaer Morhen. Eskel spoke softly, his voice not carrying further than Jaskier’s ears. He spoke of the original owners of the old keep, and how the Witchers came by it, the mages that complained about the yearly trek to administer the Trials, and eventually stayed here. As they descended a great many steps, Jaskier wondered if he was being led to a dungeon. All castles had dungeons.

“The mages, before the siege, all preferred to stay underground. Something about the cold interfering with their magic. I think they just didn’t want to wear anything under those long robes of theirs.” They shared a laugh. “Those that survived the attack were hidden in these basement chambers, and as such, some of the enchantments were kept intact.”

Eskel opened a door and Jaskier gasped. He had to look back at the dark hallway they were in to ensure this wasn’t a door to the outside. Inside the room was a much larger cavern than should have been physically possible. Long tables holding all manner of alchemical and scientific instruments ran along the outside edge of the room, surrounding long, lush rows of planter boxes. The entire room was lit by a bright ball of light that hurt to look at for too long. It gently swayed through the room in a rhythmless dance, like a feather floating on the wind. The chill of the dark dungeon behind them leeched away from Jaskier’s bones as they walked in, warmed by the magic indoor sun.

“It was a little illogical to continue foraging for herbs and plants we could have grown ourselves. The texts describing how to create the potions for the Trials were lost in the siege, but the plants that went into them still grow here. All our produce is grown here. The soil does not need to lay fallow, or be tilled, the water is irrigated under the floors, and...well you can see where we get our sunlight.” Eskel let him explore a little bit.

“This is incredible...Eskel, this is...I could never have imagined this.” He gave a sharp laugh in disbelief, eyes open wide like if he blinked, the image would disappear. “It’s so peaceful in here.”

“It is.” Eskel took a seat on a bench nearby. “And peace is always beautiful. I’ve tried my hand to figure out what kinds of spells could’ve gone into this, but those secrets must have died with the mages. I spend a lot of my time down here every winter.”

“I can see why.” Jaskier grinned at him, and looked at a peculiar plant, reaching out to—

His wrist was caught in a gentle yet firm hand. “I wouldn’t touch that one.” How had Eskel managed to move so swiftly and silently to his side? “Could melt your skin off.”

“That’s certainly something I’d like to avoid,” Jaskier laughed nervously.

“Gloves. Then you can help me harvest some herbs.”

“For what? A mystical decoction that dyes your eyes black?” Jaskier pulled on the gloves offered to him.

Eskel laughed. “Nothing so horrifying. For dinner.”

They worked in the magical garden for almost an hour in silence before Jaskier spoke up. “It’s felt like I’ve been living in a dream since the…”

“The contract that went all wrong?” Eskel tried. Jaskier nodded, looking down at the plants he was stripping off the vine. He worried his lip for a moment.

“Yes. I just feel...toppled. I am two fools, Eskel, for caring about the false truths of others, and for saying so now.” He kept his hands from trembling by sheer will alone. “My very soul has been shaken by the cruelty of others. I dare not speak about it, lest I wake up from this dream and find the whole situation to be worsened. I’m not even sure what comforts I deserve anymore, what company or enjoyment I could ask for.”

Eskel quietly absorbed Jaskier’s words, and gave a small hum, making Jaskier look up. He held a blooming flower in his hand. He looked at it as he spoke. “I have learned that to be with those I like is enough. Do not search for more when you aren’t even comfortable being with your own company. Exist as you are, that is enough.” He twirled the bloom by its stem. “I cannot promise what will happen when you leave Kaer Morhen in the spring, nor can I promise what will happen an hour from now. The future is no more uncertain than the present.

“You have many paths ahead of you, there’s going to be a lot of trial and error. Lambert would say just to fuckin’ try  _ something _ til it sticks, but you might get discouraged that way. You may come to learn some things about yourself you wished had stayed buried. Re-examine all you have been told about yourself, about the nature of humans, about the nature of Witchers and magic and life itself. Dismiss what insults your soul, for whatever satisfies the soul is truth.”

Jaskier felt breathless with that information. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to leap into the unknown, with only his own person to catch him. There was no sure warmth waiting or guide to help him on his path, like when in the hot springs with Geralt. Eskel held a wealth of knowledge behind his eyes, for which Jaskier was grateful and a little fearful. He could read the nature of his person like a book, but instead of finding him wanting, Eskel found Jaskier ill-prepared for a battle against a villain he could not see or know. Eskel looked up and down the rows of planters and sat back on his heels with a sigh.

“There,” Eskel said. “I think that’s enough for dinner.” He took the gathering basket, tools, and gloves from Jaskier and walked him up the stairs, stopping at the hallway that would take Jaskier to the library, and him to the kitchen. He had a strange, pensive look on his face, like he was mulling over the words in his head before he spoke. Jaskier remained patient, waiting for him to speak. Eskel met his eyes, and said, “Battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won, Jaskier. You are a celebrated and worthy person no matter your shortfalls, your mistakes. Keep that in mind as you work through the long dark. And keep your face always toward the sun. the shadows till fall behind you.” Eskel nodded his farewell and walked down the hall away from a stunned Jaskier.

He floated through the rest of the day, lost in thought as the chill of the keep settled back in. What battles did Eskel mean he was going to fight? His work on the library was left abandoned, meditation did not yield the same vibrant peace as before, and he remained subdued and quiet through dinner. The others, thankfully, were also caught in their own thoughts, giving the whole evening an eerie, somber mood. Geralt, however, looked him over carefully throughout the times they passed. He was worried for his bard. Jaskier retired early, though lay restless in bed for a few hours before sleep took him.

* * *

He awoke abruptly from a nightmare, half a shout on his tongue and the feeling of phantom hands pinning him down. He was sweating through the sheets, body vibrating with energy. The meager fire he’d started in the hearth had died in the night, leaving the air in the room frigid and biting. His unseeing eyes blazed around the room, seeing pale and bloody ghosts and glints of ill-willed blades in the shadows. He hardly registered that someone had actually entered the room, until they spoke.

“Jaskier.” It was Geralt, striding forward to his bedside. With a shot of  _ Igni, _ the hearth lit up, illuminating the room instantly. Geralt’s eyes glinted in the firelight as he approached. The sheets pooled around Jaskier’s waist, and he shivered as the cool air hit his sweaty skin. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier knew he couldn’t speak without his voice shaking, but he figured that if Geralt heard enough of his nightmare to come calling on him, he wouldn’t mind. “Nightmare. Fine. I’m fine.” He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to push warmth back into his limbs. Geralt wrapped him in a fur at the foot of the bed.

“You don’t look fine. You’re chilled to the bone.” Geralt’s concern always did funny things to Jaskier’s heart, sending blood pumping to his cheeks. “Your fire must have gone out in the night. Come sleep in my bed, you’ll be warmer.”  _ And safe from anything you may be dreaming of. _

Jaskier nodded numbly and followed Geralt to his room next door. He felt more exhausted than he was when he’d woken up, he must have been thrashing in his sleep. He’d had night terrors as a child, screaming awake for many years before the sleep paralysis had taken over. He’d been so afraid in those moments where Geralt was hunting these past few months that he wouldn’t be able to move when someone tried breaking in to hurt him. Geralt fussed over him a bit, practically manhandling him into bed, still warm from his latent body heat. Jaskier melted into it, the soft scent of Geralt wrapping around him securely. Once Jaskier was bundled to Geralt’s liking, the Witcher tended the fire before settling in with his bard.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered to the dark rafters above them. “For waking you.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Jaskier. You’ve been through a lot this year.” He sighed and grunted as he adjusted on his bed. “It’s a serious thing just to be alive on this dark evening in this broken world.”

“Poetic even at midnight, how’d I luck out?” Jaskier muttered, sleep wrapping her arms around him once more.

“Sheer persistence.” Geralt grumbled. Between one laugh and the next, Jaskier fell asleep once more.

He did not wake from frightening dreams again that night. He felt a little childish, bashful for needing to sleep in another’s bed to fight away the demons of that year. Geralt truly didn’t seem to mind, though, groaning at the early morning sunlight streaming through the window. “Hello, sun in my face,” he groused, pulling a laugh from Jaskier before a greeting. He sat up, remembering he wasn’t alone in his bed. “How’d you sleep?”

Jaskier stuttered out a quick “fine,” unused to hearing Geralt’s sleepy morning voice this close. In all the years they’d walked the Path together, Geralt had always risen before him, even when injured. The man hardly slept in inns as it was, preferring to use their rooms as a place to meditate under a roof, undisturbed for several long hours. He hid the evidence of his morning erection and hastily made a retreat for the door.

“Come down to the training grounds with us this morning.” Geralt said suddenly. Jaskier froze, turning to look at him curiously. The Witcher offered no other words, letting his invitation speak for itself. The chill of the stone floor, not yet touched by sun, radiated its cold, negative heat into his veins. He felt heavy as a stone, cold as the bottom of a river. The dark terror that had gripped him last night clawed up his throat and spoke.

“I’m not a Witcher. I can’t...wield a sword, or...save a life.” Jaskier waved, suddenly unable to look at Geralt directly, settling on looking at where the man’s foot still rested under the sheets.

“Self-defense, then. Save the only life you can save, at the end of the day. Nothing selfish about taking care of yourself, Jaskier.”

He couldn’t even look at the foot anymore. He looked down at the stone floor. “I don’t...what would be the point? Not much of a life to save, now, is it? I’ve been informally exiled by the world, subjected to its vitriol and hatred. The last safe place I have is at the end of the world, at the top of a mountain with four men who insist they’re not men.” He worried at his lower lip between his teeth. He knew Geralt wouldn’t worry endlessly at his depressed speech; he’d heard more dramatic utterances from the bard before. Unlike before, Geralt did not brush him off.

“I know many lives worth living. Worth saving. Yours will always remain at the top of my list, Jaskier.” It was the tone of his voice that did it; Jaskier was helpless to look up at the Witcher now, seeking any scrap of jest or joke at his expense.

As it always was in serious matters, there was none to be found.

“I’ll go down with you.”

“Great, five minutes.” Jaskier squawked and rushed to get ready, the short deadline leaving no room for hesitation in his movements. Geralt was smirking at him good-naturedly as he walked out of the room, several buttons undone, but ready all the same. “It’ll do,” Geralt winked, leading him down.

Eskel and Lambert were vying for the first step out into the courtyard when they took the steps down. Their feet seemed to barely touch the ground as they sprinted for the open manway leading out. They both hit the opening at the same time, their broad shoulders preventing one another from passing through at all. Jaskier grinned at the sight, two warriors brought to heel by something as simple as a doorframe. Geralt sighed.

“It’s a doorway, not a competition.” Geralt snapped at the bickering souls stuck in the doorframe of the manway. Lambert shouldered out first, Eskel close on his tail. Geralt shook his head and stepped out, with Jaskier bringing up the rear. The three traded quips as they bounded around the courtyard. Vesemir, of course, was already there, rolling his eyes at their antics. 

The master of the keep finally barked to get them ready for forms, and Jaskier watched them warm up, moving in unison together like an ancient dance. In a way, they had been dance partners for decades, and knew how to move together seamlessly. Vesemir called Eskel and Lambert over to do some partner drills, and Jaskier watched from his perch on the outer railing. Geralt joined him, leaning back on the old, smooth wood.

“I’ve never seen you fight like that. Why don’t you ever use daggers?” Jaskier asked, observing the way Lambert fought, two long, wickedly sharp daggers in his hands against an unarmed Eskel.

“Lambert had decided long ago he didn’t want to fight like the Wolves. He met a visiting Cat Witcher on the Path his first year and nearly broke his foot trying to scale the north tower that winter. Wolves are meant for sword-fighting, not off-the-wall assassinations.”

“When did you know what kind of fighter you wanted to be?”

“Kind of had to figure it out on my own. The Path is normally walked by two feet or four hooves, might I remind you, it’s very rare to have a companion at a Witcher’s side.” Geralt nudged him playfully. Eskel swore at Lambert as he ducked to avoid a nearly-deadly jab forward with a dagger.

“Har har, Geralt. Really. How did you know...shit, anything? To come from there to here is enough of a culture shock I find myself needing to kick myself to relax. It must have been similar the other way round.” Geralt let himself think for a while, and Jaskier knew whatever he said next would be rather profound.

“In the beginning, I was so young and such a stranger to myself I hardly existed as a separate entity from my brothers I’d graduated the Trials with. I had to go out into the world and see it and hear it and react to it before I knew at all who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be.”

“You two better get your asses some swords and start training, too, lest you run the walls til sundown!” Vesemir threatened. The two shared a side-eyed glance and darted over to the training weapons. Geralt held up two swords, and tossed the one in his left hand over to Jaskier, who barely managed to catch it before the blade found its way to his foot. He nearly dropped it, all the same.

“But it’s so heavy!” Jaskier protested.

“It’s not the weight you carry, but how you carry it. C’mon, hold it.” Jaskier held his breath as Geralt manually adjusted his grip, so there was less tension on his forearm and shoulder. The attention and the contact left Jaskier breathless, his mind providing daydreams he probably shouldn’t have been having with a fuck-off huge sword in his hand.

_ Bullshit it’s not the weight. _ Jaskier rolled his eyes and followed Geralt to a small training circle, the earth pounded flat by centuries of Witchers that once stood upon it. Jaskier felt very small indeed, holding a sword almost more than half as tall as he was, against the White Wolf’s blade, which he’d seen in action for over a decade. He definitely didn’t want that thing pointed at him.  _ And yet here we are. _

Their sparring was cut short before it began, however, by Vesemir’s interruption.

“Geralt, you’re going to have him lose a toe. Go spar with Eskel. Lambert will teach him dagger maneuvers.” Geralt looked rather put out by the order, but didn’t argue it. He said something to Lambert while passing him, which made the youngest Witcher toss his head back with a laugh.

“Let’s get that club offa you.” Lambert laughed again and plucked the sword from Jaskier’s grasp like it was nothing, setting it down on a low bench before handing him a dagger, hilt-first.

“Lambert, give him a training dagger, for fuck’s sake.”

“Whyyy?” Lambert whined.

“Yeah, whyyy?” Jaskier copied.

“I like you, bard.” Lambert smirked but did as told, handing Jaskier a rather dulled blade. “You use one of these for anything but opening letters before?”

“Absolutely not—”

“Great, let’s test your instincts. Defend yourself!” Jaskier scrambled to get his hand firm on the dagger. Lambert grinned and advanced.

_ Shit. _


	5. trial of the dreams

After the fifteenth time Lambert knocked him on his ass, Jaskier nearly gave up and let himself be killed. He was tired from the restless sleep he had from the nightmare, he’s not had breakfast, and he’s failed at every attempt to defend himself so far. Lambert, seeing the defeat, had punched him, shaking him back to the here and now.

“Was the fist to the face worth it, Lambert?” Jaskier groused, still on the ground. “I do have to perform for a living, you know.”  _ How long would it be before I do that again? _

“Your problem isn’t that you don’t know how not to get punched in the face.” Lambert extended a hand to him, which he took. Jaskier made a nonplussed noise at the observation.  _ Oh, is it not? _ “The problem is that, at some point, likely a long time ago, you got punched in the face, and instead of punching back, you decided you deserved it.” Lambert’s biting snark had been keeping pace with his attacks and blurred-speed maneuvers the whole morning. It was a complete flip from the gentle and almost kind philosophies Eskel, Geralt, and fuck, even Vesemir had given him.

It made the truth of his inability to defend himself bite right into Jaskier’s heart, which he covered with another laugh. “Perhaps. I didn’t scrap as much in my youth as some of my cousins.” In truth, Jaskier was rather left out of things like that, and had to get the attention of his parents through different means. 

“You have a face worth protecting, bard,” Lambert argued. Jaskier waved him off again, adjusting his grip on the dagger. In the background, Eskel and Geralt sparred intensely. Jaskier sighed. “Don’t give me that moaning and weeping bullshit. When everyone thought you murdered someone your instinct was to protect yourself. I know you have the capacity for defense, Jaskier, use it!” The reminder made Jaskier snap.

“I can’t fucking use a dagger against people’s wrong ideas! I’m no fucking good at it anyway, Lambert, and daggers are what got me in this fucking mess in the first place!” Jaskier shouted, throwing the weapon into the dirt. The blood pounding in his ears drowned out the silence the courtyard had dropped into.

“You think a child learning to walk, a child that falls down and hurts itself hundreds of times, will at any point stop and think ‘oh, I guess walking isn’t for me. I’m no fucking good at it anyway’?” Lambert used the toe of his boot to launch the dagger up into the air, catching it easily. “We can only be truly successful at the things we’re willing to fail at, Jaskier.” Lambert flipped the dagger one-handed, catching the blade between his thumb and first finger, hilt pointed to Jaskier. Jaskier frowned at it for a little, realizing this whole thing must have been planned and orchestrated. Nobody spat philosophy between sparring matches. He took a breath to calm himself.

“I’m not going to be able to fix this, fix myself, in one winter. I’m a human, I only have so many left in me.” Jaskier balled his hands into fists, glaring at the ground. Lambert shrugged

“Yeah, well, that’s not your fault.”

Despair took over from his short-lived anger. “I don’t want to keep fucking failing at things,” Jaskier whispered. “It’s killing me. It will kill me.”

“Change, then. If you change how you see your problems, you have to change what you value, how you measure success, and know, very clearly, what you’re willing to struggle  _ for. _ Who you are is defined by all of those things.” Lambert’s tone had softened considerably. “We are responsible for experiences that aren’t our fault all the fucking time. This is part of life.”

“I just…” Jaskier broke off, knowing he was almost drained of the last bits of his resistance to Lambert’s logic. “I wish things were better.”

“Don’t hope for better. Just be better.”

Jaskier took a slow breath, and accepted the dagger before speaking.

“Again.”

* * *

The embarrassment from that morning in the courtyard eased throughout that first day, and surprisingly, Jaskier found himself going down with Geralt each morning to train thereafter. It made lifting larger stacks of books and bundles of carpentry supplies that much easier, to be certain.

With the rhythm of his days changed, the library was coming along at a slower pace than before, but Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to care. Other interesting things happened in the library slowly. Large texts about Elvish histories, thick and annotated bestiaries, even random ledgers of bookkeeping for the old keep turned up in his journey to the far wall. While he would never know the complete history of Witchers, Jaskier was beginning to see the edges of the puzzle of the people who inhabited Kaer Morhen.

He looked up one afternoon, after meditation, to see Vesemir perusing the growing stack of books Jaskier decided he had to devour before the spring thaw. He’d collected most of the books of poetry he’d found throughout the vast library, and was interested to see what musings could have influenced the Wolves that live there now. “Ah! Didn’t see you there.” Jaskier set down the tools he had and approached the old Witcher.

“You’ve uncovered our little secret stash of softer words, then,” Vesemir chuckled, plucking the book from the top.

“Yes, well, I thought it was just a one-off at first, but...then I kept finding them.” Jaskier smiled at the stack. “I haven’t figured out why there’s just so many, the only thing that outnumbers them seem to be bestiaries.”

Vesemir nodded. “You’re right. Back in the days when we trained up little boys into the monster-hunters they were destined to be, we soon realized that they’d be awfully bored without anything to think about out there. In addition to that, they’d also have to work through all matter of problems, moral and monster. There’s no Witcher code or whatever Geralt will tell you. Each of them lives by their own laws and character. And in the end,” he said with a turn to look out the window. “We live by what we die by.”

“You would have made a fantastic poet by trade, Master Witcher,” Jaskier said reverently. Surprisingly, Vesemir laughed instead of silently accepting the compliment.

“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession. Your heart can bleed on a page but nobody has to buy it. There’s a poetry to swords and horrors of the night, and I know its verses well.”

“Was a stoic, humorless attitude also taught to young men destined to be Witchers?” Jaskier snarked. Lambert was rubbing off on him.

“No, son. If we couldn’t laugh we would all go insane, men and Witchers alike. Geralt laughs as much as you do, he just shows it differently. You have to surprise him to hear it out loud, though. Boy’s wrapped tighter than anyone else I know.” He set the book in his hands down with a sigh. “What can I help you with? I know I said I’d be helping you this winter and haven’t exactly followed through.”

Jaskier is startled by the offer of help, as much as the mild apology. Mostly, he’d kept to himself in the lonely library, lost in stories and opinions of men long dead. He looked at the library with a fresh eye now, concentrating on his mental list of tasks to complete. “I was putting a few shelves to rights, before you came in. I’d love to have some company and conversation, to chase off the silence.” Vesemir nodded and they got to work.

“Most people are perfectly afraid of silence,” the older Witcher said in a belated response. They didn’t look at one another while working.

“Why’s that?” Jaskier asked.

“Usually, because they find their own company so deplorable they’d rather make themselves other people’s problem instead of changing.” Jaskier hummed in thought.

“I was always taught that liking yourself was a very narcissistic way to live life.”

“You taught that by your professors, tutors, men of knowledge?” Vesemir chuckled.

“Oh, men of vast knowledge, always eager to share it with others.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and got another laugh out of Vesemir.

“Knowledge is a polite word for dead but not buried imagination. An immovable corpse of the what-could-have-beens, and to share what you  _ know _ to be true with anyone who didn’t ask seems rather more narcissistic than being content in your own company, to me. Not that you were asking for my vast knowledge in the first place.” This startled a laugh out of Jaskier.

“How self-aware of you,” he grinned. “You must have gathered all there is to know.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve had a lot of time to get to know myself. After four hundred years, it’s kind of hard not to. You’re going to think to yourself many times, ‘this is it, this is the moment in my life I’ve been waiting for,’ and you’ll disappoint yourself. In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on. No amount of poetry or little anecdotes from men of knowledge will change that truth. It’s up to you to face the day and continue. Good times? They won’t last longer than a heartbeat. Bad times? The same. The worst times?” Vesemir finally stopped and met Jaskier’s eyes. “The best way out is always through.”

Heat rose in Jaskier’s cheeks again, knowing exactly what Vesemir was referring to. “I don’t—”

“The snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches, and neither does tragedy. It ain’t your place in life to hide from yourself. You are an accomplished, intelligent man, live like it.” The heat of his words had grown gradually through his proselytizing, and Jaskier felt radiant with a mixture of shame and knowledge that this man, over eight times his age, would turn even an ounce of his pride to Jaskier.

“I am alive!” Jaskier protested.

“Unbeing dead isn’t being alive, Jaskier. It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. It takes a lot more than just bravery to remain true to who you are in your soul.”

The rest of their work was done in silence, the words seeming to faintly echo in the stone walls around them. Jaskier’s own words failed him, could not defend him, not from the wisdom imparted on him. He felt flayed open on the blade of his own cowardice and insecurity, blood on stone.

Before he left for the evening to prepare dinner, Vesemir put his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and pulled him close in an embrace. The shock of it knocked the wind from his lungs. The Witcher pulled back just as quickly. “The others and I are going hunting tomorrow morning. Might be gone a few days. Will you be alright staying here on your own?”

Jaskier nodded. “I have...a lot of things to think over, I’ll be alright.”

The silence would not afear him this time.

* * *

Geralt and the others were gone by the time Jaskier woke the next morning. There was a hastily-written note on the table by the bed, in Geralt’s hand.

_ Be good. If you can’t manage that, we’ll probably hear you if you scream loud enough. _

The first day of the hunt was the first time Jaskier has been left alone for almost a year. He kept himself bundled up, warm against the chill that had already settled into the stones. Most of the fires were out already, save the one in the kitchen, and the great hall where they met as a group. Jaskier knew the others planned to convert it into a salle, once the snowfall became too heavy. It had only been a month since they’d all arrived; midwinter was yet to come.

In the corners of his mind lingered the wise words given to him, by all of them. They stayed there, but drew closer as the sun began its sprint back into the horizon. He didn’t dare try to practice dagger moves on his own, lest he sliced off a finger. He also didn’t try to wind his way back down to the magical garden he’d visited with Eskel, or attempt to maneuver the hot springs on his own. He’d get lost in minutes, and without a Witcher’s help, would be helpless as to finding his way back.

The library didn’t hold the same comfort as before, either. It held naught but stifled loneliness that seeped into his heart when even just passing by. He walked the grounds, instead.

The hush of the snow was comforting. In his youth, it meant staying indoors in a loveless house, stifling and straight-backed. Jaskier’s love of the great outdoors had been apparent from the earliest days of his memory. For all Geralt moaned about the bard’s ‘need’ for a bed, four walls, and a roof, he indulged in the little luxuries far more than Jaskier ever did. Adventure called to Jaskier at every breath of the wind, at every sultry sway of the trees. In winter at Kaer Morhen, the snow meant silence. The barely-there noise of snowflakes landing had him smiling to himself, a reminder he was alive.  _ Undead, Vesemir would say. Playing in the snow doesn’t make me alive, certainly. _

He’d told Vesemir he had a lot to think over, but his mind wasn’t ready. He could not make any sense of the feelings he had in his soul, nor the words to express it. His mind felt more like a grave the longer he tried to sit and contemplate. The dark words in the corners waited until night fell.

In his dreams, there was a storm.

Great waves of ice and near-frozen saltwater cover him entirely, bashing him side to side to the tune of the words he’d been screaming at himself.

_ You really should have predicted they’d turn on you, you freak. _

_ You put yourself in this situation. _

_ You should just end things here and now, do everyone a favor. _

_ These Witchers would kill you given the chance, no wonder they want to practice taking a knife to you. _

_ Can’t even sleep through the night? What a pathetic failure of a man you are. _

_ Stay in the library, bard. You’re of no use to a keep full of Witchers. _

On and on and on the words came, slashing through him like a hundred knives, right in the back, in his face, in the ghosts of the blood that had dried there that fateful day. The memory of Geralt silently wiping away the blood with a rag returned to him. He must have blurred the memory from the day, so focused on himself he’d forgotten.

_ How selfish, narcissistic. _

**Nothing narcissistic about defending yourself, son.**

Suddenly, one of the waves coming crashing on him was stopped by an invisible barrier, like the one around Aretuza that prevented any damage from summer storms and autumn hurricanes. He normally loved the soft rain, the thrilling shift in pressure. It kept him in too many healers’ huts, but the feeling of the rain on his skin, soft and gentle, was welcome.

_ Such a freak, finding solace in freaks of nature to find your peace. _

**Exist as you are, that is enough.**

Another massive wave breached and crashed into that invisible wall, built higher, stronger now. He no longer felt drowning, yet still lost at sea. He watched in horror as another wave of his own depressing insecurities swelled, deep and black.

_ You deserve to drown for this. _

**You** **_decided_ ** **you deserved it.**

Jaskier held a hand up in defense, all instinct and resurging protection. The wall is shaky, but holds. Jaskier looks at his hand in awe, knowing it was his power, his will, that stopped the current from drowning him.

He noticed a higher ground, but when he tried to move toward it, lowering his hand, the waves only lapped harder, crashing against his self-control and breaking his composure.

_ You cannot fight it, this weight is too much for you. _

**When it’s time to let it go, let it go.**

Jaskier put his hand down, and let the wave take him.

* * *

He awoke with a scream caught in his throat, thrashing in his bed, in a frigid room. The storm still raged under his skin, bringing tear-floods that moved nothing, sigh-tempests that did not soothe him in the least. He sobbed freely and untethered to time and composure. He wept for his lost time, the summer and autumn and winter that should have been spent in joy, to be walking alongside his heart’s desire, seeking adventure and witnessing the world. It had been lost to him, and he should grieve.

Geralt had said they would hear him if he screamed. Oh, how his heart tore itself apart, the clawed hands of the cruel shredding his dignity, his pride, his courage. Could they hear his melancholy, too? He’d sat in the puddle of his misery for so long that he didn’t know he was living and breathing with the rest of the world.

It wasn’t that worse things could happen to him. It wasn’t that other horrible things happened to other people - he’d written about them in his lifetime. He hadn’t expected such a monstrous violation to happen to himself.

The book on the table by the bed clattered to the ground, dark and seemingly so far away. The sound bounced throughout his bedchamber and pulled his attention to the door. His mind provided a shocking and eerie hallucination: the handle on his door, moving just slow enough to see it wiggle back and forth and back and forth. Jaskier stood from the bed, hands balled into fists.

He was emboldened by the words his dream had given him. He knew he could scream and the Witchers would come running through the night to his side. Jaskier remembered a scream that powerful only once belonged to a princess of Cintra. He set his jaw and gritted his teeth and advanced on the door, throwing it back to reveal—

Nothing.

Darkness sat before him, though faintly illuminated by the moonlight streaming in. One step after another, Jaskier entered the hallway, but there was no one there.

He was alone.

Jaskier wandered the keep that night, lost and dizzied in his own musings and melancholy. He walked until dawn began to break over the windows the next morning, and ended up on the bearskin rug before the fire in the great hall. He looked into the embers dispassionately for almost too long, but was able to rekindle the fire there with steady hands and sure motive. The shadows in the corners did not darken as deeply as they had before. Perhaps the acknowledgment of his sorrows and fears had been the first step in his recovery, his return to himself.

But he wasn’t himself, was he? He was a changed man, and not in the best of ways that phrase could be interpreted. How much longer would he have to endure the debilitating darkness of his life, just to feel the sun on his face once more, free of fear from his fellows? Gods, he was beginning to sound like them. It was a comfort more than an annoyance.

He missed the Witchers, for certain. He would have called himself on the behavior any other day, but he found himself sulking through the halls aimlessly until his feet took him back to his room. His hand was curled around his lute before he recognized what he was doing.

Fear and uncertainty shocked his body, stealing his breath. Could music be possible in his cage of dark depression?

“Guess we’ll find out,” he whispered to no one.

In the great hall, a bard sat, in perfect posture, hands steady, heart shaking.

_ Should I ride ten thousand days and nights _

_ Fucking bollocks my voice is shite _

_ Borne to these stranger little sights _

_ Perhaps I should be a little quiet _

_ But in these greater halls of stone _

_ Things invisible to see but to one _

_ I have never gone this far on my own _

_ Yet now I feel so damned— _

The bard wept.

* * *

By the third day alone, Jaskier was used to the feeling of missing his Witchers. His heart did not feel an absence, however. There was rather an expansion of his soul, one that stretched out in a hand, wide and invisible over the snowy landscape, to that fabled place of wherever-they-may-be.

He tried to sing again.

His wolves, from miles and miles away, heard, and stopped in their hunt to listen.

* * *

He was able to see four lithe figures move through the paths leading to Kaer Morhen, when he stopped to look through the windows late on the fourth day. He rushed about excitedly, stacking wood in the hearths and lighting them. He hoped they had many stories to tell from their days on the hunt, in addition to the catch they brought with them. The shock of hearing voices other than his own faded fast, as Jaskier bounded down the stairs to the kitchen where they were piling a great deal of game upon the table.

“Is that a moose? I can’t tell if it’s you that smells or if it’s the carcasses.” Jaskier grinned at the Witchers, who all shot him very fond, unimpressed glares.

“Glad to see Kaer Morhen isn’t burned to the ground,” Vesemir said.

“Again,” answered the rest of the Witchers. Jaskier sat close by, undeterred by the smell of animal blood pervading the air. It was so different from the regular stagnant dust of Kaer Morhen that he genuinely didn’t mind. Jaskier kept his eyes on them, his focus on them, his heart attuned to them. He’d missed their company most of all. He posited that were he a ghost, he’d seek out their lively company wherever he haunted.

With the new supply of meat and all his Witchers back in one piece, the courtyard gates closed once more. Jaskier watched them shut, and at the jolting finality of the screeching portcullis kissing the earth, he felt a strange relief. The tears he’d shed two days before made sense now. In the biting cold, among the ghosts of the past and the silent shadows watching him, in earshot of the Continent’s greatest hunters, Jaskier was safe.

* * *

The library effort was put on hold for the few days following the Witchers’ return to the keep. Jaskier was glad to help Vesemir in the kitchen, while the others tanned and preserved the hides they’d taken while on the hunt. It seemed to be a tradition, this hunting trip. It was one of several they took while wintering at Kaer Morhen, and served to be a needed supply run as well as crucial bonding time for them all.

Jaskier helped to cure the meats and hang them to dry while mincing and butchering the others. “How was your time with us away, then, bard?” Vesemir asked.

“Enriching? Perhaps that’s the word. You’ve taught me a great many things, all of you.” Jaskier gestured with his knife, and Vesemir hummed, a quirk to his eyebrow.

“I am not a teacher, but an awakener.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and laughed easily, taking the deflection for the humor he saw.

“Then I am awakened.”

He hadn’t been plagued by the nightmares which had driven him to Geralt’s bed, and hadn’t been invited up to meditate either. The absence of his White Wolf had hurt, but his time in the kitchen had helped his sad, idle heart. “What else has awakened, then?”

Jaskier took a sip of wine next to him. “Perhaps...that I’m allowed to exist. And that existing alone is impossible, lest you want to be miserable. I sound like a first-year philosophy student. The simplest things just occurring to me about life, left and right.”

“How many things have to happen to you before something occurs to you, bard?”

“Perhaps a great many small things, or one great big thing.” Jaskier sat back in his chair, looking into the fire. “I didn’t expect a homecoming to be so…”

“Lonely?” Vesemir finished, tossing some offal into a bucket.

“Yes.”

“We were all happy to be home, you should know. Each of us missed your company in our own ways.” 

“That’s...nice to know, honestly.” Jaskier sipped his wine once more, a vintage from Toussaint. Every wine and spirit in the keep was a vintage. “I missed you all, too. In my own way.”

Time passed quietly among them, cleaning the meats as they came apart from the bone. Jaskier remarked that the wine was incredibly well-aged.

“Yes, well, the lips drink water, the heart drinks wine. Witchers appreciate that difference. You do know that the Elder words for heart and fortress are just a pronunciation apart?” Vesemir chuckled and added some chunks of elk to a stew. “We’ve been paid in many a thing save coin before, and in the Wolves that have walked the Path through Toussaint, we have been paid in wine time and again, which makes the trek up that much more perilous and rewarding all the same.”

“Amazing. Eskel had us drain his wine prize when we met him on the path,” Jaskier said, chuffed. “It was a miracle I made it up at all, to be certain. Must be my eternal heartfelt need to follow Geralt to the ends of the earth.” His tone was self-deprecating, putting down his loyal doggedness to trail at the White Wolf’s heels. “To be quite candid, knowing he’s far away and cannot hear, I feel rather halved when he’s away. Every reunion feels as a reunion to myself.”

Vesemir studied him for a time, watching as he worked, lost in thoughts of his own. Jaskier had come to realize that the old Witcher was akin to a machine, fed by the tangled trials of everyday life and built to expend wisdom and clarity where there was none. It was a very long time before he spoke, but when he did, he was sure to make certain that Jaskier did not have a sharp tool in his hand.

“You love him.”

It was as simple as the spring, and inevitable as the autumn, yet Jaskier gasped in a breath, fearful to let his affections be so clearly on display. His eyes met gold, the same as Vesemir’s sons, the same as his fathers’ before him. For as long as Jaskier could remember, his heart held Geralt, or rather, had not held Geralt, had instead held a piece of him out for the taking, parts of which were ripped away and hopefully hoarded by the Witcher himself.

“Y-yes. I suppose I do. Admitted in my deepest sleeps alone.” For what was an infatuation with a Witcher, but a doomed ending, waiting to start?

“You should know, then,” Vesemir said, amused.

“Know what?”

“That one’s not half of two; two are halves of one. In the years you’ve been walking the Path with Geralt, he’s spoken of little more than the adventures you’ve been on. He speaks in ‘we’ and ‘us’ and naught much else. Perhaps...hm.” Vesemir studied the pot he held in his hand, half-sculled and seemingly forever interesting, by the look on his face. “Perhaps that’s one of the reasons your songs have reached such great renown.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The songs make sense. Unless you love someone, nothing else makes sense. I do, however, know that happiness does not coincide with love.” Like how they spoke in the library over a week ago, they did not look at one another as they worked, as they philosophized at each other. Jaskier thought briefly at the object of Vesemir’s affections, the loves he spoke of, the missing happiness of some. With Geralt, the happiness ebbed and flowed.

“The happiness is much shorter than I would normally prefer, and I wonder if it is because of the depths of my affections that it is so fleeting.” Jaskier put another bit of errant fat, rare for winter game, into the offal bucket.

“Do not despair. Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.” It was only then, at Vesemir’s reminder, that Jaskier understood why he followed Geralt. Geralt was, at most times, belligerent, rude, condescending, and aloof. The moments he deigned to share with Jaskier, a simple sunset appreciated after a long day traveled, a quiet evening of gentle songs in a language they both didn’t know, a smile shared across a boisterous inn, too loud for either of them to enjoy, they were the moments Jaskier lived for at the end of it all.

“You say to not despair, yet I find myself at a curious junction of inaction.” Jaskier abandoned his work for the moment, meeting the old Witcher’s eyes. “What am I to do with this harmful and useless fact of my life?”

“Own it,” Vesemir said easily. “Own it and hold it and allow it to grow, in its own way. You’d be surprised at the space a love can grow when you let it.”

And so the bard revolved to at least try.


	6. keep you close

Eskel invited him down into the garden several times that winter, but they almost never spoke of deep matters, until the time just after the Witchers had gone out to hunt. Jaskier had noticed Eskel’s looks, the machine at work just behind those amber eyes. He had something to say to Jaskier, but didn’t know whether to bring it up alone or where the others would be able to hear. It reminded Jaskier an awful lot of the same expression an old paramour would give just before informing him of their very regrettable, unfortunately unavoidable, marriage.

Eskel obviously didn’t have that kind of message to convey, however.

The first few minutes spent in the garden were quiet and peaceful, the magic ball of light swaying gently above them. Jaskier sat back and put his tools down, eager to get this over with. He wasn’t going to let Eskel take the upper hand immediately, however.

“Have you ever been in love, Eskel?” He supposed he could have started anywhere, but Vesemir’s observation had left Jaskier just a little shaken up, to be quite honest.

“Of course I have, many times.” Eskel did not look up from his work just yet.

“Oh, don’t be a braggart,” Jaskier teased.

“If you done it, it ain’t bragging.” The Witcher finally sat back and tilted his face into the light. “Yes, I’ve been in love. With plenty of things. The sound of a sword unsheathing. The smell of pines in high summer. A smile, here and there where I usually get none. A mother bear and her cubs, playing in a stream. First snowfall.”

“Oh, you’re the worst. You know what I mean,” Jaskier huffed.

“That’s me: bad as the worst, good as the best.” The toothy grin Eskel gave made Jaskier wonder why he ever doubted that the man knew love. The grin slid off his face, however, and a faraway look replaced the teasing glint in his eye. “Yes, I have been in love.”

The air felt heavier, thick with memories and heartache. “Tell me about them,” Jaskier whispered.

The clouds in Eskel’s eyes dispersed, the soft center of his soul concealed once more. “We were together.” He stabbed a spade into the soil. “I forget the rest.”

Jaskier’s mind whirled through all manner of possibilities that could have wrought such a brief response. Death, betrayal, heartbreak, infidelity, lies, tragedy. Jaskier has seen and sang about it all.

Some secrets, though, were a little too attached to the roots of one’s soul to bring up easily, if at all.

They worked together in quiet contemplation until Eskel made a surprised, frustrated noise. “What is it?” Jaskier asked.

“I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake. For all the time I spend down here, I keep forgetting there’s an end to the magic if you dig deeply enough. Look.” Jaskier rose up to his knees, and peered inside the small hole Eskel had been digging. Just beyond the little ring of soil, there was velvety black darkness that the magical sun did not alight on. “That’s the true cave. All this, it’s just magic, it’s not real.” Eskel sat back, his earlier melancholy gone.

“We’ve eaten it, we’ve made real, tangible things with the things grown here. You contradict yourself.”

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then. I can be more than one thing, and both are fine. The same way this garden is here and nowhere. The same way you can sit here with me now, teasing under the sun, and at the same time you’re crying yourself to sleep and wrapping yourself in cloaks of misery.”  _ Ah, here’s what Eskel wanted to say. I won’t like this. _ “Do you know why we prune roses?”

“So they can grow back stronger, without the dead or diseased canes.” Eskel nodded.

“These are the days that must happen to you. You needed to prune yourself back for the winter, cut off anything anyone else could see of you, so come spring, you would bloom stranger and flourish in the grave you insist on sitting in. You’re nobody’s darling right now, Jaskier, and that means no one gives a shit how hard you’ve fallen when you’ve already taken the fall.”

“You sound like Lambert,” Jaskier said breathlessly. Eskel ignored him.

“You know as well as anyone else that the truth is rarely spread, and for those that fought it, the real war will never get in the books. Look at Geralt. You think anyone out there gives a single shit about what happened at Blaviken, what really happened?”

“I do! Perhaps he hasn’t told anyone because someone wanted him to  _ prune _ off his connection to it so he doesn’t fucking speak about it.” Jaskier stood angrily and stalked out of the room, not bothering to check if he was followed. He needed to go stab something.

* * *

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Jaskier asked Lambert as he approached. The Witcher was sewing up a wound he’d gotten from Vesemir’s blade just an hour before. Lambert huffed a laugh.

“Course it does. The body doesn’t remember pain. Second you stop feeling things is when it all goes downhill.”

“That seems counterintuitive. Wouldn’t not being able to feel pain be an advantage in a fight?”

“It’s the adrenaline, first of all. No pain, no adrenaline, no life-saving instincts. Besides, when we deny ourselves the ability to feel pain for a purpose, it’s a slippery slope to denying yourself the ability to feel any purpose in our life at all. It’s why you gotta heal. If words didn’t hurt, apologies wouldn’t matter. If knives didn’t hurt, armor wouldn’t matter and then you’d be dead.”

Jaskier crossed his arms at the chilly wind that whipped through the small lean-to. “Well. You certainly have a different outlook than the rest of them.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not weeping and snotting all over everything just because life sucks, I just don’t give a fuck about it. When I reach my hour of death, I’d rather welcome it joyfully than fear it. Geralt and the other bastards in there, they talk a big game about how they don’t fear death and don’t feel things like regret or shame or defeat, that’s all bullshit.” Jaskier smiled to himself as Lambert ranted. “Every attempt to try and escape the negative is going to shit on you as soon as your back is turned. Avoiding suffering is a form of suffering. Avoiding struggle is a struggle. Denying failure is a failure. Hiding something shameful is itself a form of shame. S’why I like hanging out with Cats. They have a refreshing amount of emotions and would stab you if you tried to stifle them.”

“...cats?” Jaskier asked, lost.

“School of the Cat Witchers. Crazy fuckin’ bastards, every last one of them. Learned more about Witchering from Cats than I did Wolves.” He’d been gesturing with the end of the needle this whole time, but when he gestured to the main keep, he pulled it a little too hard, and swore. “Fucking piece of shit needle, I’m gonna kill your whole needle family.”

“You’d probably be better off if you didn’t have me distracting you.” Jaskier stood up. “I think I’m gonna go thaw in front of a fire.”

“You do that. See you at dinner, bard.”

“I’ll see you. And Lambert?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Dunno for what, but sure.”

* * *

Jaskier retreated to the library for the first time since the Witchers went out on their hunt. He didn’t know why he expected anything to be different, but the creak of the door was just the same as it was a week ago. He puttered about, dusted off some shelves, avoided a particular pile of books. He’d had enough philosophy and poetry spouted at him the last few weeks, thank you very much.

He hauled himself up into the little alcove by the window. The snow had piled up so high on the glass, this was the only way he could see outside anymore. The fire hadn’t been lit in this room, adding to the stale air of the place. Out across the mountains, over the trees and snow and hibernating creatures, his mind wandered. Lambert’s words tumbled over and over in his head. Was he avoiding his shame, his struggles? Was that making things worse? Eskel had said he was growing from a grave of his own making, a thought he’d had as well. He’d reacted in such anger, then. Anger that his life was so easy to read and reduce to a few words.

Vesemir had seen into his very heart as well. He’d said “you love him” without so much as a surprised tone. Was love as easy as that to see? Should it be so easy as that to speak of? He’d come to Kaer Morhen to relieve himself of the isolation of the world, and in the end, had isolated himself from the men who were just trying to help him out of this dark chapter. Shame burned in Jaskier’s chest, flooding up to his eyes and spilling out in angry tears. He let them fall, blinking at the bleak landscape outside the window.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice called from the door. There were just a handful of seconds between the Witcher entering and reaching his side, which Jaskier spent scrubbing the tears from his face by the end of his sleeve.

“I’m here, I’m fine. Just. Needed to be alone for a while. I kind of yelled at Eskel.”

Geralt lit the hearth with  _ Igni _ and took a seat in a nearby armchair. Jaskier remained in the alcove, tucked up in himself. The fire was a welcome warmth, though. “You don’t seem fine.”

Jaskier let out a shuddering laugh. “Well, trust a Witcher to know. Can’t hide a shred of privacy or dignity in these walls, can I?” It came out much more bitter than he’d intended, still hurt by the flaying his soul had taken.

Geralt considered him, concerned but not angered. “You want to cry aloud for your mistakes. To tell the truth, the world doesn’t need any more of that sound. It needs you to take the deep breath you have yet to breathe, and let go.”

“Let go? I need to let go? I can let go of everything that happened in summer all I want, Geralt, and it won’t make a lick of difference what they think of me. It won’t keep me from fearing for my life. It won’t keep them from trying to take that life.”

“Are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life? They only ever antagonized you over what happened because you walked around accepting guilt and blame for something you didn’t do,” Geralt said, his tone even but stern. “You’re not going to change what they think if you do nothing but feel sorry for yourself and reach for things not given. There are things you can’t reach. But you can reach out to them, all day long. You can dream of having them and wake up with your hands empty. You haven’t even been able to acknowledge what’s so terrible without being deep in your cups, Jaskier.”

“Yeah, well, suppose I’m a failure of a man, then. A bad friend, a bad travel companion, and a fucking mistake all around,” Jaskier snarled. “You going to throw me down the mountain now, or wait til spring so I can watch the flowers grow as I die?”

“Jaskier, I would never do something like that to you,” Geralt said gravely, standing from the chair and approaching Jaskier. Jaskier just glared out the window, like it’d melt the snow there. “Recovery isn’t done all at once. But pretending you don’t have a problem and not talking about it to those that are trying to help you is only going to hurt you worse in the end. You’ll remain a stagnant shell of yourself and will never be able to see things as you did.”

“How would I be able to see things as I did anyway? The world wants my eyes on a plate.”

“You’ve been training with us for over a month now, I don’t think they’d be able to get to you without you wanting them to. There is confidence in you, and bravery. Some stupid man tried to cover that up. You do not have to be good. You just have to let yourself  _ be, _ Jaskier. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. I...am sorry I have not proven myself receptive to your fears in the past, so much that you felt you’ve had to hide things from me. But Jaskier, it’s killing me to see you submit to this darkness as you have been.”

The confession left Jaskier in a sea of bewilderment. Geralt’s expression is one of sincere concern and attention. Nothing could pull either of them from this talk, not about this.

“I…” The words caught in his throat all too easily. He swallowed and swung his legs from the alcove, still sitting, but now facing Geralt. “I apologize. I do not run into battle against the unknown as you do. I have not danced with draconids and slew beasts twice my size. I have not been scorned by the earth and burned out of her garden. In truth, I feel…”

The image of a cresting wave, higher and higher against him.

“...drowned?” Geralt whispered. Jaskier felt tears prick his eyes again.

“I don’t know what to do. You all seem to have the answers, and give them to me freely, but I don’t even know the questions I’m supposed to be asking.” His voice was thick with misery and raspy with pain. Geralt’s hands came to rest on his thighs, two warm points of connection tethering him back to the world.

“My dear bard, let me help you.”

* * *

Jaskier slipped back into his shy ways once he’d resolved to stamp out the pest living in his heart. He didn’t hear much of any philosophy or poetry sprung on him for several days. Geralt must have said something. The part of Jaskier’s mind that was still pressing his face into Geralt’s cloak cried in relief that someone would take care of him, but the new, braver part of him scoffed in distaste. He should be able to handle his own shit, no matter how bitter the words that make strong boundaries may taste.

Geralt turned their meditation time into quiet walks and talks around the castle, hands clasped behind their backs and no real direction in mind. It was mostly just Geralt asking questions of Jaskier, in varying degrees of a personal nature. When a question cut too closely, Jaskier did not fold and open that part of him to Geralt. He was having trouble saying an outright  _ no, _ but perhaps it was more difficult to deny yourself to the one you wanted to give every part of your soul to.

It was on one of these walks, on the last day of the year, when Lambert and Eskel accosted them. One moment, they were turning a corner, the next, Jaskier saw his Witcher’s boots dragged down a hall, raucous laughter following in their wake. Jaskier gave chase to the scene, curious as to the reason for his kidnap.

“You know, Eskel, I think the snow is pretty high today,” Lambert crowed.

“Tall as a Witcher, in fact.”

“Interesting. And quite cold if you can believe it.”

“Cold? At Kaer Morhen? Where have you been wintering the last half-century?” Eskel teased. They’d slowed their escape down to a leisurely drag of Geralt’s body down a flight of stairs. Jaskier laughed. “Oh, you find us amusing, bard?” Eskel quipped.

“Only on days it snows enough you speak in riddles.”

“This is a riddle you won’t want solved, Jaskier,” Geralt warned, an amused glint in his eye. A challenge. Jaskier gave him a look.

“Let me decide my curiosity’s path, dead cats be damned.”

“We’re going to the hot springs,” Lambert said. “For now.” The wink he threw to Jaskier must have explained everything to the Witchers, but only served to confuse him even more.

“Do I need to go grab my things?” Jaskier asked.

“Not at all.” The Witchers laughed, and Jaskier wondered if he was in over his head more than normal this time. They passed Vesemir on their way to the springs, who just shook his head and walked off.

“Vesemir isn’t joining us?”

“He says it hurts his hips,” Eskel supplied. “C’mon, Geralt, walk yourself the rest of the way, you lug.” The White Wolf was put to rights, and the group arrived at the springs.

“Go on, strip down,” Lambert laughed in the total darkness. The four of them slipped into the pools with a groan. No matter how long it had been since they’d last been in the pool, it was too long, every time.

“What are we doing in here?” Jaskier whispered to who he hoped was Geralt. A warm hand settled on his thigh, familiar and strong. His Witcher.

“Nothing, for now. Just relax.”

It was easier said than done, knowing there was a catch to this sudden mid-day bath. “Alright, plans for the new year. I plan to first, not die. And second, I plan to swim between Ard Skellig and An Skellig,” Lambert said. “At least once.”

“Those seem to contradict one another,” Geralt mumbled, earning a kick from the younger Witcher.

“Alright alright, fuck you. What are you doing then, Geralt?”

The Witcher gave a long sigh. “Hm,” he said eloquently. “Well, not dying is a given and a tradition.” This earned murmurs of approval from his brothers. “And I think I want to learn a song.”

“You’ve got a bard for that,” Lambert reminded him.

“I want to learn a song from the mermaids.” This pulled interested noises from all three listening.

“I thought it just sounded like unholy screeching,” Jaskier said.

“Siren song, yes. Mermaids are a little different.”

“Yeah,” Eskel said. “They say to hear a mermaid song, you have to be taught to listen. To the untrained ear it sounds like water over riverstones, crashes of waves on the shore, the lapping of the ocean against a hull, a deep whistling.”

“Oh, Geralt, teach me to hear the mermaids singing, please,” Jaskier said, grabbing the hand on his thigh.

“Anything you want,” Geralt murmured softly to him. “Eskel?”

“I plan to not die,” Eskel answered between sighs. “And I want to use a ranged weapon where I can. Gods know I had too many close calls this year, one injury after another.” His brothers hummed. “Jaskier?”

The bard startled. “What?” He’d been so content with hearing about the plans, the aspirations and hopes and dreams from men who had never had cause to wish, that he’d almost forgotten he was there, too.

“Go on. What about you?”

“I...er, well.” Jaskier swallowed nervously. The hand on his thigh squeezed once in support.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Geralt asked, close enough that his breath felt just a touch hotter than the springs they were sitting in. Jaskier had been focusing on his past and his present so intently he’d forgotten that the future, too, needed optimism.

“I hope to love.” His voice was small, but honest.  _ If you can be nothing else, be honest. _

Lambert broke the tense silence. “It’s a sin that you can be this heartfelt and emotional in a bath with three naked Witchers.”

“Then love is sin, and let me sinful be,” Jaskier sighed. “Oh, and I plan not to die.”

“Good man!” Lambert crowed. Geralt gave a pleased hum to Jaskier’s response. He felt his face heat up a little more, but had exactly one second to realize this before he heard Lambert stand up in the pool. “Alright. We all warmed up now?” Eskel and Geralt grunted and stood.

“I...suppose?” Jaskier frowned, and was also pulled to his feet.

“Alright. Fast as you can, follow us. Geralt, don’t let him squirrel out of this one.”

“What—?” Jaskier yelped as Geralt hoisted him suddenly out of the pool. He was assaulted with the image of Eskel and Lambert, dripping wet and nude, when Eskel pulled the door to the springs open. “What?” Jaskier shouted again, when Geralt gently shoved him out after them. “What—oh!”

Suddenly, they were running, wet feet slapping against the stone. Geralt kept a hand on his back, pushing him faster and faster. Jaskier realized they were heading…

“Is  _ this _ why you were talking about the snow, you mad bastards?!” Jaskier barked. Eskel laughed, and Lambert let out a long howl. “What are we  _ doing!?” _

“You already know the answer to that, my dear bard,” Geralt chuckled behind him. They were all obviously going easy on him, his poor human legs unable to stretch and push the way theirs were. “Head down, straight into the snowbank, now.”

They leapt through the manway and Jaskier shouted as his feet hit the icy stone of the courtyard. The air felt like a hundred knives in every inch of his skin, but he’d never felt so  _ alive _ than in this moment. The others were laughing and whooping and hollering out to the air, their breath making little clouds before their lips. Their very skin radiated heat, steam rolling off of shoulders like they were cutting through the sky itself.

One Witcher, then another, disappeared into the snowbank, covered in soft powder. Jaskier felt fear grip him by the neck, but Geralt was there to keep him moving. Two large hands wrapped around his bare hips and hoisted him into the air, launching him up and into the soft cold snow.

The world slowed and stopped, and his body felt incandescent and overstimulated. The calm he found in the sudden freezing temperature shocked his body into clarity. The sky was brighter. His mind was clearer. Fear felt far from him. It was like the music of his life was playing the loudest it could, but he heard nothing but joy. He realized that he was laughing, moving his hands through the snow and watching it melt away beneath his fingertips.

Eventually, the focused high faded, replaced by determination and of course, the reminder that his bollocks were probably going to shrink up into his skull. “Fucking fuck!” Jaskier scrambled out of the snow, where the other Witchers were already standing out of. There were a few blankets folded to the side, evidence that this encounter was very much planned. Geralt wrapped a blanket around his shoulders like a cloak.

“How was that?” Geralt asked. Jaskier felt himself shivering, but could not stop grinning.

“You do this every year?” he asked between chattering teeth. Geralt’s hands rubbed over his blanketed arms.

“Yes. I do apologize, though, I should have told you what they were doing, or asked, and—”

Jaskier reached a hand up and grabbed Geralt by the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. The boldness of the move shocked Geralt, but warmth bloomed in both their chests, borne from the searing heat of the kiss itself. Jaskier pulled back, licking his lips a little, chasing the taste of his Witcher on them.

“Now we’re even,” Jaskier whispered, biting back a grin. Geralt wasn’t reacting in disgust or offense, and instead looked stunned beyond belief. Geralt huffed a laugh and wrapped his own blanket around the both of them, resting their foreheads together and sighing.

“I suppose we are.”

* * *

The other Witchers knew to at least avoid their area of the castle for a few days.


	7. keep you closer

They lay in bed long after the sun rose, gently enjoying each other’s warmth. “I don’t think I ever asked why you do that horrible tradition,” Jaskier said, tracing half-healed bitemarks on Geralt’s body with his lips.

“Hm?” Geralt grumbled, frowning at the ceiling. It was rather hard to think with Jaskier draped naked over top of him.

“The whole, you know. Springs to the snow. Thing.” Jaskier waved a hand, and leaned his head on Geralt’s shoulder.

“It is kind of strange, isn’t it?” Geralt said softly, gently fluttering his fingers up and down Jaskier’s spine. “We started it about twenty years ago. We lost a brother that year, the first since the siege.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered. Geralt kissed his head in reassurance.

“His name was Ronan. He was close with Eskel, they walked the Path together sometimes. It was always a thing for him to think about the future. Of all the Witchers to be taken by the Path, he was the last one who genuinely believed in the good of people, in hopes and dreams and wishes coming true. It was the last shred of humanity most of us had. After he didn’t come home, Eskel was...I’ve never seen him like that.”

Jaskier chewed the inside of his cheek. “Were they…”

“Together? Yes, I think so. Eskel doesn’t speak of it.” Geralt sighed. “But that year, while we were all still grieving, Eskel met us in the springs. It was quiet, for a great while. I think we were all expecting one another to say something. We all lost and were lost that winter. Then Eskel spoke softly, spoke of his plans not to die, his wishes for the future, his hopes for spring. I think he said he wanted to eat better next year.” Geralt chuckled and wrapped his arms around Jaskier. “We all sort of just, did it. We made plans with the world. We had an appointment with death, but not this year. Not when we planned not to die that winter.”

“And the snow?”

“That’s just Witchers. We wanted to chase away the darkness. Running from the near-black of the hot springs to the white embrace of the cold snowdrifts in the courtyard, we were embracing a hard life and letting go of old mistakes.”

“Making time to start anew, then?” Jaskier asked. Geralt nodded, closing his eyes. “I think I may have already made headway on my resolution, then.”

“Hm?” Geralt kept his eyes closed, but made a curious expression, just enjoying the moment.

“Love, all alike, knows no season, no climate, nor hours, days, months. If I am loving you now, I am loving you tomorrow, in springs or in the snow.” Geralt hauled his bard in for a kiss, keeping him close and safe. “How do you come up with new adventures to enjoy, having done most everything a man can do in this wild world?”

Geralt grunted and sat up. “I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world. It’s a lot broader and different every spring. I’ve only spent a handful of the cold seasons down the mountain, but I appreciate my time on the Path even more, especially with you, when I’m wondering about it up here.”

“Then I will gladly walk with you to the end of our days.”

* * *

When work and training resumed again, Jaskier found Geralt struggling to relax most nights. While he told Jaskier it was fine, that he didn’t need to worry, it did just the opposite for him. He was lashing out in training, and scoffing in frustration when they tried meditating. Geralt hadn’t been in the mood for doing much talking with Jaskier, which was fine but still unsettling.

“Jaskier,” Vesemir said in greeting when he walked into the library a few days into Geralt’s moping. “I was hoping I’d find you here. Are you very busy?”

Jaskier shook his head and sighed. “Mostly hitting a wall. Could use another set of eyes on a curious situation.” Vesemir approached, and Jaskier explained. “These books have no names, they seem to be part of the same series by the similarities, but I’m not sure the order they go in, or really anything about them.”

“I haven’t seen these in a very long time,” Vesemir chuckled, picking one up. “These were Geralt’s books when he was younger. He won them in a game of Gwent his first year on the path. They’re supposedly first editions of a collection of fables. The man he’d bested didn’t want to sully his coin by giving it to a Witcher, you see, so he took some books off his shelf and tossed them to a very indignant Geralt.”

“No wonder I couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Storybooks, in Kaer Morhen!” Jaskier smiled. “I suppose simple one, two, three for the labels will do.” Jaskier’s hands moved swiftly to affix a glued label to the spines.

“We usually don’t come home from the Path for the first five years after we graduate,” Vesemir said cryptically. “It’s to teach hardship, endurance, how to survive among humans before you were allowed to come relax, collect your dues for surviving the season. Geralt didn’t come home for almost ten years. He told me it was because he didn’t feel done with it, didn’t learn enough. Boy’s always had a low picture of himself. And after Blaviken...we had to drag him back here by his hair.”

Jaskier looked up at Vesemir, then. “Blaviken happened in the wintertime, didn’t it?” he asked quietly. Vesemir nodded. “He couldn’t get home to…”

“To recover.”

Jaskier looked out the window, seeking the answers his mind wanted. “Does he…”

“Think of it every year? Always, just after the new year. It’s not a weight he should still bear, after so long.”

“Almost thirty years he’s carried that mantle. I...I’m not sure how to bring it up. If I should.”

“We’ve already been there for him when he needed us. I think having you around will be a welcome difference, and may do some change. You’ll know what to say when it’s time to say something.” With a pat to his shoulder, Vesemir left the library.

“Fucking Witchers,” Jaskier grumbled, shoving away books haphazardly.

Jaskier sought out his Witcher that evening, finding him in the springs. The flash of white hair from one of the pools, followed by a glint of golden eyes, had Jaskier walking in with relief in his steps. “May I join you?” he asked.

He got a grunt in response, and let the door fall closed. He undressed, and Geralt held up a small sphere of burning  _ Igni _ to guide Jaskier to his pool. He managed without any slips or falls, sinking in at Geralt’s side, their bodies sliding together with no hesitation.

At least, no hesitation until Geralt shifted away. “Don’t do that,” Jaskier whispered. “Don’t pull away from me. Not here, not where we’re both safe.” Jaskier’s hand raised, searching for Geralt’s face. The Witcher took his hand and pressed his cheek to Jaskier’s palm.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. This is just how I get.”

“It’s a darkness we’re all touched by sometimes. Don’t despair that your mind wants to remember one of the worst days of your life.”

It was quiet for a moment before he heard Geralt sigh. “Vesemir told you.”

“Don’t go blaming him, now. It’s just the two of us talking, alright? Just us.” Geralt nodded his understanding into Jaskier’s hand. “I’ve been worried about you. Where’ve you been in that head of yours?”

“Where do you think?” Geralt said dryly.

“The past,” Jaskier said simply. “I think you’ve been in the past. For all your philosophy keeping me here and now, you’ve locked yourself in the same little box full of darkness you fought so hard to free me from. Let me do the same, my love.”

Geralt gave a shuddering breath. “It’s not...a weight one bears with visible struggle. It’s a rope that ties you down, anchoring you, preventing you from standing up again.”

“Oh, my dear. You’ve always acted like you’ve endured, like you’ve shrugged off that weight. I know you can, just feel, let it in.”

“Jaskier—”

“Oh, for Melitele’s sake, hold your tongue and let me love. It’s not a contest to see who can shed the least tears for their sorrows. Life is a brutal challenge of a thing, and leaves us on our knees more often than we know. It’s not shameful to ask for a hand up, or even a quiet place to just mourn the happiness you had. Sadness exists for us all to experience.”

Geralt dropped Jaskier’s hand, and he was worried he’d overstepped for a minute before he was being pulled into the Witcher’s lap, and held close.

“Thank you,” Geralt said in a rough voice. “You...thank you.”

“Thank  _ you,” _ Jaskier said. He pulled Geralt’s hands up toward his face and kissed each scarred knuckle. Geralt made a soft, wounded sort of noise at the contact. “What is it?” Jaskier asked softly.

“These hands aren’t made for love, Jaskier. They’ve only known violence and pain, and have wrought evil things.”

“Not from what you told me. A forced choice is not a choice, and no one in that fight was giving you a fair chance at all.”

“I cannot be…” Geralt huffed, clearly not done trying to scare off Jaskier from the decision his heart had made one sunny afternoon in Posada. “I cannot be the bright and shiny lover you have had in court, and in cities. I have no beauty or wealth to offer you, nor conventionality or stability. A Witcher’s heart beats four times slower than a man’s, and is worth less to hold than—” Jaskier interrupted him with a finger to his lips.

“Love, built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies. The moment I met you the colors of my life began to pour, and I have been drowning in your love since I can remember. I know, deeper than any truth at the heart of me, that I will continue to love for the remainder of my golden life. No matter the darkness you carry, or will pick up along the way.”

Geralt buried his face into Jaskier’s neck, making that same wounded noise again. “I could lose you out on the Path. I could not protect you when you needed me most this past season.”

“That’s not your call, Geralt, nor is it your fault.” Jaskier ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair sightlessly, enjoying just the feel and sound of him. Geralt took a shuddering breath, as if to speak once more, but Jaskier shushed him. “I forbid any mourning of my life, you know. This world is wild and wide and wonderful, and I have lived in it with you more than I could have in a hundred lifetimes without you. Do not despair if I go, we will meet again. Destiny would not tie us so closely together just to sever us apart.”

“I’ve hurt and angered you in the past, though, I could do it again.”

“Enough with the excuses, I  _ love _ you and you cannot change that fact, dear Witcher. The presence of anger or hurt does not make love disappear. Eskel would say that I contain multitudes, and I do not contradict myself so.”

They were quiet again for the rest of their bath. Geralt had agreed to share the burden of his regrets and his pain, and Jaskier waited with hands open and ready. It was all either could ask for, to trust one another.

After the bath, they went up to their room  _ (their _ room!) and stripped each other down once more. Jaskier’s hands moved surely across the wide, scarred expanse of the Witcher’s body. “You discredit yourself greatly, my dear Witcher,” he murmured into pleasure-hot skin.

“How so?” Geralt asked, breath just a little labored.

“You claim you have no beauty or wealth, but I see a wealth of beauty before me. You claim to not be bright or shiny, yet your hair and swords say otherwise. As for conventionality and stability, if I wanted that, I would have never put the road underfoot. You have given me a home that knows no address, and the welcome of a family that shares no same blood. You have given me more than I can hope to repay, in a hundred thousand lifetimes dedicated to trying.”

Geralt had no such pretty words for his bard, but could at least hold him in the strong circumference of his arms, content with the world for once in his life.

* * *

The rest of winter went by much too quickly for any of their liking, but Jaskier knew the Path called to the Witchers all as Jaskier’s heart called to Geralt. The snow had stopped falling a month after the new year, and began to thaw just a few weeks after that. Each morning was spent watching Witchers blast  _ Igni _ at the snowbanks in the courtyard, melting the remnants of a snow-Witcher Jaskier had made weeks before. Geralt had held him close for that one, with Jaskier’s hand pressed to the back of his own, held in the shape of the Sign.

It looked like fire flowed from his fingertips, and felt just the same.

The library was certainly nowhere near done, but it was in a place where at least Vesemir was comfortable with. Jaskier kept his organization system written on a piece of parchment near the door, so his hard work would not be undone in the coming months. “I’d still prefer it if you returned for the next season, you know. Finish what you started,” the old Witcher said. Jaskier smiled softly.

“I’ll miss you too, old man.”

“Won’t miss that smart mouth. Gods, how Lambert’s ruined you.”

Dinners were of a fattier type, breads and sweets and rich meals meant to fatten the Witchers up before they hit the Path. “That’s why you look so plump when I run into you again,” Jaskier groaned one night after a long evening of eating and drinking. “I’m going to burst. Write my will, Geralt.”

“I have nothing to do with you if you die up here. You’ll get a pauper’s grave and that’s it.”

“I think you should come apologize to my mouth with your mouth right now.”

* * *

Lambert disappeared between the setting of the sun and its rise. He left without goodbyes, which was annoying for all of ten minutes before Jaskier realized it was probably for the best. Lambert had said all he had to that winter, and left before he could let his mouth run away from him any further. There was a polished and freshly-sharpened training dagger in Jaskier’s lute case, however. It was the one Jaskier had taken up that very first day of sparring. Unadorned with gilt handles or jewels, it served its purpose as a significant parting gift. Jaskier wore it at his hip proudly.

* * *

Eskel felt the call next.

He was packing up his things when Jaskier had come down to visit Roach. “You’re not going to leave without saying goodbye, too, are you?” Jaskier asked nervously. Eskel gave a warm smile.

“Of course not. Just getting Scorpion used to the weight again. I’m leaving come morning, though.” They stood staring at one another for a great long while, saying nothing.

“Will the garden be alright without you?” Jaskier asked.

“Vesemir will take care of it. You’ll learn, though, that everything takes care of itself eventually, in Kaer Morhen.”

At the gates, they gathered together in a half-circle around Eskel and his horse. One by one, Eskel said goodbye, first to Vesemir, getting a few sage words he rolled his eyes at, and next to Geralt, a silent embrace that probably meant more than words could ever say. Before Jaskier, Eskel took a breath and smiled knowingly.

“Our fearful trip is done,” the Witcher said. “You’ve known the unknown, fought, and won. I look forward to more tales of your battles next winter, bard.”

Emotion swelled up in Jaskier’s chest all at once, and he wrapped his arms around Eskel’s shoulders. Hurriedly, he said, “Remember your new year’s promise. Keep it for you first.” Jaskier pulled back and took a shaky breath, trying to get control of himself again. “I’ll see you in the winter.”

“We shall meet again in the winter,” Eskel said, before he took Scorpion by the reins, and left.

Though it was practically spring, the wind blew very loud and very cold that night in the keep.

* * *

Geralt didn’t speak of when he wanted to leave Kaer Morhen for the Path, but Jaskier could see him growing antsy just a day after Eskel left. He was barely halfway through suggesting seeing Toussaint before Geralt was heartily agreeing.

They wrapped up the loose ends they could. Jaskier could not do the same feats of strength Witchers so easily could, so it was mostly cleaning flues, changing sheets, laundry. The things they could do to ease Vesemir’s own passage into the warmer months.

Their reluctance to leave was starting to grate on the old swordmaster, though. “If you don’t leave tomorrow I’m going to throw you both down the mountain,” he said at breakfast. Geralt and Jaskier shared a look, and got to work packing. Roach was more than happy to get back on the road, it seemed, and the morning they packed up to go, she was patient as ever, eager for their next adventure.

Now they stood where Eskel had, and only Vesemir before them. Geralt got a sharp slap on the shoulder and a nod, so emotionally stilted Jaskier almost had to roll his eyes. But Geralt turned back to Roach, and Vesemir then stood before him.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had a guest at Kaer Morhen. It could have gone worse.”

Jaskier gave a startled laugh, grinning at the old Witcher. Vesemir, in turn, smiled at him. “No final wisdoms for the road, Master Witcher?” Jaskier asked, fiddling with his cloak.

Vesemir put a hand on his shoulder and leaned in. “Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backward. Travel well, bard. Keep him safe.”

“I resent that,” Geralt said from a few feet away.

“Thank you, Vesemir. I plan to be back for winter.”

“You better. That library won’t fix itself.”

* * *

The trail back down was much more pleasant than the trek they took up the mountain. They had to move slowly, lest Roach slip, but Jaskier was glad for it, taking the time to think on Vesemir’s words. His world had been shaken greatly in the last year, but he’d at least grabbed the last few shreds of himself, and pieced himself back together, with the help of his friends and his love. He wasn’t sure how long the doorknob-shaking nightmares would persist, but he at least had the Continent’s greatest monster-hunter at his side. They would perhaps outright deny any tag-alongs on their adventures from then on.

“I’m a bit nervous to return to regular folk,” Jaskier admitted during a break on their trek back down the mountain. Geralt looked up from his book - one of the few fable-books he’d won from his first year on the path.

“For what? They’ve probably changed as much as you have.”

“You think so?”

Geralt looked up at the trees, his eyes gleaming in the weak overcast light. “I kept myself in the public eye after Blaviken because I thought I deserved it, deserved their derision and scorn. I thought the only way I could combat it was to fight the stigma head-on, but it never, ever worked. The spring after I finally came home with the rest, I realized that I needed the courage I could only get after confronting myself. And that summer, I met you.”

Jaskier held Geralt’s stare through sheer will alone. Geralt had one more thing to say.

“When you are eventually asked why you disappeared, you’ll tell stories of it that won’t be false, and won’t be true, but they’ll be real all the same.”

They didn’t have time to sit and wax poetic or share theories with the trees, so they kept moving, camping that first night and making it to a town by nightfall.

“Hertch,” Geralt said distastefully. “Someone long dead probably owes me money in Hertch. All the fresh Witchers try and get a contract here, and are swindled terribly.”

“We can keep moving, then?” Jaskier suggested. 

“Fine with me.”

By the time night fell, they were both hungry and tired, so used to sleeping in beds with roaring fires keeping them company. They saw a little no-name town in the distance, and Jaskier suggested they bed down there. Geralt gave him a wary, concerned look, but nodded. With the coin they’d won off of Lambert in Gwent that winter, they had enough for a room together. The innkeeper alighted on Jaskier’s lute.

“You a bard?”

Jaskier floundered a bit, but settled on, “A bard’s not a profession, but a condition.”

“Well, condition notwithstanding, you play for us, yer room’s free. Been a long time since there was music in this town.” Jaskier gaped at Geralt in surprise, didn’t this innkeeper know? Didn’t they know about the rumors?

Geralt only gave him a raised eyebrow and a shrug. Jaskier felt music thrum through him once again, rich and powerful.

“I’d be delighted.”

And that night, Jaskier sang.

**Author's Note:**

> This work uses quotes from several poets and one modern philosopher. I attributed the quotes to each Witcher in a way I thought worked best, based solely on my own interpretation. I have a full list of the quotes borrowed if anyone would like to know the sources, but the attributes are as follows:
> 
> Vesemir: E.E. Cummings & Robert Frost  
> Eskel: Walt Whitman  
> Geralt: Mary Oliver  
> Lambert: Mark Manson (author of the Subtle Guide to Not Giving a Fuck)  
> Jaskier: John Donne (and one wildly misattributed quote by Sir Philip Sidney)
> 
> Also figured out that this fits nicely in my Witcher Bingo Card for "quiet conversation". Score!
> 
> This idea of outcasting Jaskier came from a deep, heartfelt desire to whump the bard. He just has that kind of face. I'd like to thank my lovely spouse Erik for encouraging me, as well as the Bard in Kaer Morhen server for being incredibly distracting this whole time.
> 
> This is for Amanda, who is an inspiration every day, and I'm so sorry this fic is 16 days late, but I've been in excruciating labor for this the whole time. I deeply hope you enjoyed this, my friend. Many hugs.
> 
> Thank you all for reading this, I'm very very proud of it, and hope you did too <3


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